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 (32 page)

Years ago, while at the HMO, I’d run over here for a sandwich and a hot tea before they closed because I knew I’d be working through dinner. Later in my career, my assistants would dash over to fetch my coffee. Yet today, it may be
me
who comes here on the coffee run. I sit and wonder how, no matter what my professional standing, I keep winding up at the same damn Starbucks.

Weblog Entry 6/26/03

THE PROBLEM WITH HEATHER

I’m presently temping in the Customer Relationship Management department of a very nice multinational corporation.

I know the company is nice because they’ve apologized profusely about the major yawn of a task they have me doing. I’m cleaning up their customer database. My job is to go through approximately one zillion emails that have stacked up since they fired their last temp for sleeping at her desk—when she wasn’t busy surfing online dating sites—and make appropriate changes to their records.
¹⁷³

About 90% of what I deal with is bounced emails. If an email bounces, I go into the database and unsubscribe that customer. The bulk of my job is OPEN, COPY, DELETE, PASTE, QUERY, DESELECT, CLOSE, and then repeat approximately three times per minute.
¹⁷⁴

I live for the opportunity to read the 10% of the emails that are actual customer responses. Most of these are requests to be removed from the mailing list, and this is where the fun starts! People compose angry and profane notes to get off a mailing list that they signed up for voluntarily. One of my favorites was from a woman who sent a multi-paragraph missive about the nerve of the company sending her email to her work address when she was a busy professional that didn’t have time for our foolishness and she could not understand why she had to make the effort to respond to us about something that blah, blah, blah. It must have taken her at least fifteen minutes to write this note on her company’s time. Quelle dumb-ass.

The angry letters are fun, but best email I’ve seen so far was from a girl named Heather. Apparently Heather is looking for an internship with this company, so she made the very wise move to send an email to a generic customer service address and not, oh, say, Human Resources or perhaps a specific person.

I read her cover letter and I was appalled. Not only was it written in three different colors (fuchsia, turquoise, and black), it was also done in three separate type-fonts, making it obvious that she had cut and pasted the “best parts” from other sources.

Oh, Heather,
bad form.

And you know those formatted letters in Microsoft Word where you fill in your own information? You highlight the area that says “street” and you fill in your own street information? Well, apparently Heather doesn’t, so her cover letter says that she lives on Street, City, State ZIP. (I should mention here that one of her selling points was that she was (sic) “detail orientated.”)

Heather must be a busy girl because she sent this heinous cover letter/resume out in a blanket email. I know this because I could see all the other recipients in the “To” line. More than 20 organizations’ email addresses were listed. Oy.

But no one knows more than me how tough it is to get a job now, so I felt empathetic. I figured that she was a high school girl with big ambitions but not much training on job-finding protocol and I honestly wanted to help her.

I opened her resume attachment to find her contact information with the intention of sending her a friendly and informative “here’s how your communication can be more effective” letter.

I glanced at her address and saw that she lived on a street in one of Chicago’s richest suburbs where the home prices start in the seven-figure range. This surprised me because even the public schools up there are of higher quality than most of this country’s private institutions. Although she should have known better, I gave her the benefit of the doubt and decided that I would still be a Good Samaritan and help her in her quest.

And then I saw it.

Holy shit.

Heather is not in high school. Heather is in
college
. And not only does she have a BA in English from the University of Illinois, but she’s also only a year away from having her MASTER’S degree in Education.

And she was sending out misspelled resumes in the laziest format possible.

From her parents’ North Shore mansion.

While I slaved away for less than a hundred bucks a day in a grunt job in order to buy food and medication.

DELETE

Evict This, Motherf*cker

Weblog Entry 7/1/03

AMBER ALERT

Missing: One sidewalk, approximately 30' in length and 3' in width. Color is industrial light gray.

Last seen leaving Westside neighborhood with members of the Russian Army. May also be in the company of two light gray cement stairs.

Reward if found.

I
f you get this job we’re totally sending Mike a fruit basket.”

Fletch is back from a second interview out in the suburbs, arranged by one of his old colleagues. “Overall, I feel good about it. I like the way the manager leads his team, plus the job’s less technical than what I had before, so I’d have an advantage over the other sales engineers.”

“What about getting out there?”

“The commuter train practically stops in front of their building, so it was no problem.”

“And taking the bus to the station was fine?”

“Smooth sailing through calm seas.”

What a relief! I was worried he’d somehow miss his connections and wouldn’t get to his interview, and then he’d be all bummed out again. Although the meds and therapy are working wonders, I’m still cautious about potential setbacks, and I’m doing everything in my power to prevent them, like not keeping any liquor in the house (even though Fletch’s doctor says the drinking is a symptom, and not the main problem). I’m dealing with all the bills and bill collectors, so he doesn’t have to worry about them. I’ve even started cooking dinner. Each night we have a meat, a vegetable, and a starch lovingly prepared by my own hands.
¹⁷⁵
And instead of spending the money I got from selling my coats on fresh highlights, I bought Fletch a couple of new dress shirts and ties to wear to his interviews, despite the fact that my hair is
really
scary at this point.

“I have a good idea. Since it’s so beautiful out, let’s take the guys for a walk and dissect your interview.”

“Let me get out of this suit and change into play clothes.”

While I wait, I watch the Russian Army. They’ve been working next door for months, yet they just got a Porta Pottie. I shudder to think of where they were going before. They’ve also procured a radio, and earlier today I heard a bunch of Slavic accents singing along to the Strokes. It was rather cute and made me hate them a bit less.

Fletch bounds down the stairs with the dogs. “Ready, Freddie.”

“Let’s locomote.”

“Wait. Grab the other set of keys because I want to go out the side door.” We generally use our back door because we only have to work one set of locks. “The Army’s got a huge pile of debris out there, and I don’t want to have to maneuver the guys over it. The last thing we need is a trip to the emergency vet.”
¹⁷⁶

I lock the first door while Fletch and the dogs bound off ahead of me. At the foot of the stairs, he stops to check our mail while I unlock the main door. I’m dying to know more about the interview because it’s the first solid lead Fletch has had in months. I’m afraid to get my hopes up, yet this one feels so promising.

“If they offered you a job, when would they want you to—AHHH!” Air whooshes past me as I free-fall for what feels like ten minutes before hitting the ground with a resounding thud. The impact throws up a huge cloud of dust and rattles every bone in my body.

“Jen! Are you OK?” Fletch asks, coughing and wiping grit out of his eyes.

From my spot in the dirt, I look up at Fletch standing in the doorway as I try to figure out exactly what just happened. “What—why—how did I get down here?” I look in incomprehension at my skinned palms and filthy knees. “What happened to the stairs? Where’s the walkway?”

“They’re gone. I guess that’s what’s in the pile out back.”

“But…why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t someone have warned us?”

“You’d think so.”

I run tentative hands over myself, assessing the damage. “Fletch, do you see little cartoon stars and birds flying around my head, too?”

He bends down to look in my eyes and places a hand on my forehead. “Are you sure you’re OK?”

“I’m kind of scraped and I got the wind knocked out of me, but I should be fine.”

“Good. You scared me.” The dogs want to comfort me but they’re not willing to jump off the ledge to do so.
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Fletch leans down and gives me his hand. I right myself and brush all the dirt off my clothes. “That was like base jumping, except without a parachute.”

“Yeah, one second you were right ahead of me, and the next you’d completely disappeared. Boom. Gone. Tiiiiimbeeeeeer!” I notice a twitch at the side of Fletch’s mouth. Then he has a quick chest spasm. His eyes sparkle wetly and he coughs into his hand. How adorable is that? He’s so concerned about my well-being that he’s
crying.
He’s more sensitive than I ever imagined. Bless him, he’s trying to hide his tears.

I hug him as he silently quakes in my arms. “Honey, it’s all right to feel your feelings. Let it out. I’m just a little dirty and dazed, no worse for the wear. It was only a couple of feet—I couldn’t have been hurt very badly.” I hear him suppress a snort. “Really, I’m OK. I won’t be leaving you anytime soon.”

This man is a
saint.

He gasps and shakes harder. “Fletch, I’m perfectly
fine.
You don’t have to be so—Wait a minute. ARE YOU LAUGHING AT ME?”

My temp assignment is bumping along. The job is unbelievably boring, but I have no right to complain about doing data entry when others are busy fighting a WAR right now. I recently got an e-mail from an Army officer who bought a DVD from me. He and his troops are stationed in Iraq, and they’re buying up movies and books like crazy because between brief episodes of terror, there are LONG stretches of boredom. The officer told me everyone wants comedies because they all need to laugh right now. When I shipped his DVD, I also included a bunch of other funny movies and books. I figure they deserve this stuff, considering they’d probably give their eyeteeth to work a lousy temp job rather than being shot at.

I’m trying hard to make a good impression here because I’d like to land a permanent job with the company. I’m working really diligently and am not ashamed to brownnose the manager. He now loves me, although I can’t say the same for others in the department.

I’m in a bathroom stall when I hear two coworkers enter.

“Her tan is ridiculous. Melanoma is never pretty. And what’s up with her hair? Ten inches of blond and two of black? It’s so natural…NOT!” says the one named Stephie. Yesterday I heard her and her cohort Angie prattling on about their upcoming trip to Cancún for HOURS. Stephie gloated about being such a great negotiator because she finagled a discounted rate for their September stay. Yeah, like it’s real tough to get a lower rate during hurricane season. I had to put on my headphones and crank up Henry Rollins to drown out their incessant self-congratulations.

Angie adds, “Did you see her bag? Nice Prada knockoff, sweetheart. Did the street vendor promise you it was real?”

The people at this company have been decent to me except for these two. Stephie and Angie resent me because we’re all working on the same project and I’m showing them up. Of course,
I
don’t spend half the day scheduling bikini waxes and shopping for swimsuits online, so I have a natural advantage.

I flush and exit my stall, positioning myself between them to wash my hands. I smile at each of their pale reflections in the mirror while I slowly line my lips and blot my nose. In the old days I’d have gone all Columbine on these girls. Now I’m finding it’s kind of fun to take the high road.

I say, “Enjoy your vacation, ladies,” as I exit the lavatory in the wake of their stammered apologies. Because, really? The idea of them cowering in their hotel’s storm cellar during Hurricane Whatever is satisfaction enough.

However, when I get home, I
am
burning this bag.

Weblog Entry 7/6/03

’TIL IT HURTS

I just received a lovely thank you letter from the Army Warrant Officer listed on my home page. I want to share an excerpt from his note in hopes that it will sway you to send the brave men and women in Iraq a nice treat.

Thank you for your generous care package. The books and DVDs will keep the troops entertained for weeks. It’s really hard on the soldiers here; no showers, no flush toilets, or hot food. These are great Americans, these Army kids. I’m proud to be with them.

We are in Balad, Iraq, about one hour north of Baghdad and have been in the country three months. We travel all over Iraq, visiting Army medical units and repair medical equipment. It is getting very dangerous now. Hope I get my troops home safely.

Come on, don’t you have a nice book or DVD that you’d like to donate, knowing the pleasure it would give these folks, especially when they’re enduring these hardships in the name of the United States?
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My temp assignment has ended, so I’m back to tanning compulsively, freaking out about money, and spying on the neighbors. The Russian Army is almost done with construction on the McMansion next door. Since they apologized profusely and replaced the sidewalk,
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we’ve had no additional incidents.

I’ve not felt quite as much animosity toward them since I had a nice chat with the developer. He came to this country ten years ago with something like thirty-five cents in his pocket, and now he’s building and selling million-dollar properties. He says he wants to write a book someday and tell his story because it will be an inspiration to the people back in his home country.
¹⁸⁰
Despite my best efforts, I rather like this guy and am going to have to find a new outlet for all my residual bitterness.

The developer told me that people already bought the place for something like $875,000. He says they’re in their twenties and it’s just the two of them. That blows my mind. How can two KIDS buy a house worth almost a million dollars in this economy?

Now that I think about it, I imagine these two will fill my bitter bill nicely.

To: [email protected]

From: Kelly from Canada

Date: July 12, 2003

Subject: Unemployed and bored

Hey Jen;

I’m sitting in front of the Internet at home. I’m unemployed, bored and just spent my remaining credit on a TJ Max tube dress. I was wondering if you have any advice on how to keep active, fit and fun while at the same time juggling VISA, VISA and VISA bills. My brown hair is growing in over the blonde and I’m going nuts.

Help!

Kelly