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 (34 page)

It’s not that living in my parents’ house again would be so bad, although I would miss my friends here in Chicago. But I feel like if we move home to Indiana, there’s no chance we’ll ever be able to get back to where we used to be. I don’t mean materially; if we were given the chance again, I think we’d live our lives very differently. Our values have changed completely and our wants are now vastly different. I could care less about Dior’s newest line of lip gloss. What I want is for my husband not to get those furrows in his brow every time the phone rings. I want to see him walk in the door, whistling after a pleasant day in the office. I want him to put his dirty travel coffee mug in the sink instead of the dishwasher, where he’s supposed to leave it. I want to go to my parking space and get into my car—what kind it is doesn’t matter anymore—and be able to drive somewhere. I want to get up in the morning and have a purpose, whether it’s answering phones or writing the great American novel. We’ve learned what is and isn’t important, and all we need is one more chance to prove it.

I’m deep in thought when the phone rings again. Maybe it’s my mom and she’s had second thoughts about lending us the money! I knew she’d come around!

I swivel to look at the caller ID and the smile fades from my face.

It’s our landlord’s secretary.

Shit.

To: [email protected]

From: Kelly from Canada

Date: August 5, 2003

Subject: More advice, please!

Dear Jen:

My boyfriend and are in our mid-twenties. We’ve been living together for two years and he hasn’t proposed yet. We’re happy, but still a bit worried because I long for more of a commitment. Was my mom right when she said, “Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?”

Sincerely,

Kelly (aka Waiting for the Ring)

To: Kelly from Canada

From: [email protected]

Date: August 5, 2003

Subject: RE: Advice, please!

Dear Waiting Kelly,

if-it-ain’t-broke-should-I-still try-to-fix-it question…I know it well. First off, I don’t agree with your mom. The milk-for-free stuff was relevant to her generation, but no longer to ours, considering gratis milk abounds. One simply needs to go to a bar around closing time—it’s a veritable dairy aisle out there.

I also don’t agree with the experts who say you shouldn’t live together first. Their theory is that this is less of a commitment, and couples that live together are more likely to break up. Um, yes, and I think that’s a
good
thing. Better to have one skirmish over who gets the toaster upon move-out then to fight about the custody of your children every weekend for the next fourteen years.

As I’m a fan on interpreting Judeo-Christian ethics to my own benefit, I think it’s a much bigger “sin” to marry and divorce on a whim than to just give it a trial run by cohabitating. (I made this determination while living with my own boyfriend for almost seven years, BTW.) More couples divorce over non-dramatic issues like money and communication, rather than affairs and abuse. Living together is an excellent proving ground where you can work this stuff out without worrying about having to return everyone’s wedding presents if you can’t.

I’m slightly concerned about your age and your need for more commitment. If you are presently worried about your boyfriend’s level of involvement, then marriage isn’t going to give you any guarantees. Conversely, please don’t let the fact that he hasn’t asked you yet cast aspersions on the depth of his feelings for you. Maybe he’s waiting to be more established in his career, or perhaps he’s not financially ready to make the commitment. Although it’s not the answer you want to hear, my best advice is to give this more time.

Does this mean that I sat by patiently for seven years, waiting for my boyfriend to pop the question after proving that we were compatible? No. I badgered him relentlessly for the first few years. You see, I desperately wanted a big Michigan Avenue wedding with the Vera Wang dress and the Tiffany princess-cut rock and your choice of prime rib or lobster tails. And I wanted it all to happen before I was 30, as that seemed like the old maid cut off date. When we got married last year, we chose a simple ceremony in Vegas.

Turns out that the big production stopped being important to me; just being married was enough. What’s interesting is that after living together for so long, nothing seems that different now, except the addition of rings and a license to harass single people.

Bottom line? It’s far better to let the commitment happen naturally than to force it simply because someone else says you should. If you’re truly compatible, then when the time is right, everything will fall into place.

Best,

Jen

LANDLORD’S FIVE DAYS’ NOTICE

You are hereby notified that there is now due the undersigned Landlord the sum of One thousand six hundred twenty-five dollars ($1625) being rent and late charges for the premises situated in the Village of Chicago, County of Cook, and State of Illinois, described as follows: 1513 West Superior, 2R, Chicago, IL, 60622 together with all buildings, sheds, closets, out-buildings, garages and barns used in connection with said premises.

And you are further notified that payment of said sum so due has been and is hereby demanded of you, and that unless payment thereof is made on or before the expiration of five days after service of this notice, your lease for said premises will be terminated. Keller, Macon, Goldberger, & Associates, One IBM Plaza, Suite 46, Chicago, IL, 60611, are hereby authorized to receive said rent so due for the undersigned.

Only full payment of the rent demanded in this notice will waive the Landlord’s right to terminate possession of said premises under this notice, unless the Landlord agrees in writing to continue such possession in exchange for receiving partial payment.

I’m on the bed hugging Maisy. I’ve been shaking ever since I found the notice on the door when we went outside for our walk. I should be packing right now, but I’m completely paralyzed. Yes, I’d like to live elsewhere, but because I elected to do so, and not because I’m so worthless that I can’t even manage to keep a roof over our heads.

It’s over.

We lost.

We’re moving home.

Fletch enters the bedroom and comes to sit beside me. “Jen?” He bends down to kiss my forehead. I ignore him. I know we’re about to have the “what’s next” conversation, and I just can’t bear it. To avoid looking at him, I bury my face in the pillow I’m sharing with Maisy.
¹⁸⁹
Maisy—the traitor—leaps on him and begins to lick his face. “Jen. You’ve been up here for hours. We need to talk. JEN. LOOK AT ME. This is important.”

I sigh and my voice catches as I say, “I’ll get started packing in a minute. If you want to work on the den, I’ll do the bedroom.”

“Why? We’re not moving.”

“Yes, we are. You saw the notice.”

“I did. But we’re not moving.”

“I’d prefer to not go to court or get arrested for trespassing, thanks.”

“Listen to me—
we’re not moving.
When you went upstairs, I called the hiring manager and told him our situation. I said I needed an offer letter today. And…” Fletch pulls a sheet of fax paper from behind his back. I bolt upright, snatch it out of his hands, and begin to read.
We would like to cordially extend you an offer with a starting salary of…

“Oh, Fletch, that’s wonderful, but we still have the eviction issue and—”

“What issue? I explained to Bill’s secretary that we were having a cash-flow problem because I wasn’t getting any consulting gigs. I told her that because of this, I got a traditional job so we’d never have an issue paying the rent again. I sent her a copy of my offer letter and arranged to pay rent and associated late fees when I get my first paycheck, so they rescinded the notice.”

“We’re going to be OK?”

“We are.” We hug while Maisy tries to worm her way between us. I say a quick prayer of thanks and silently pledge never to allow us to get that close to the precipice again. “You know, I couldn’t have gotten through all this without you.”

“Really?”

“Yep, so now I want to do something for you. When I go to work on Monday, I want you to sit down at the computer and start writing.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve talked about becoming a writer for the past six months. This is your chance. If you’re really serious about this as your career, start writing and let’s see where it goes.”

“Really? But what about temping?”

“Don’t worry about taking any assignments for the moment. Besides, I’ll need your help getting out of here in the morning. If I’m going to be in the suburbs by eight a.m., I’ll have to be up really early. I probably won’t be home until seven o’clock every night, so the dogs will be depending on you, too.”

This is it.

We got our “do-over.”

I promise I’m going to be a different person—a better person—from now on.

“Thank you, honey.” I smile contentedly with my head resting on his shoulder. “Hey, Fletch?”

“Yes?”

“When you get paid, do you think…would it be possible…could I get some new shoes? Wait…wait…Fletch? I WAS KIDDING!”

Weblog Entry 8/11/03

AN OPEN LETTER TO EVERY COMPANY THAT DIDN’T HIRE ME

If you hear the hoof beats of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, there’s no need to worry. They’re simply hanging around to herald the fact that FLETCH STARTED HIS NEW JOB TODAY.

::cues the Halleluiah chorus::

The company that hired him took a couple of lifetimes to extend him an offer, and then one more to wait for the offer to be official, pending a background check. Don’t know why I was nervous that he wouldn’t pass, as his resume was non-fiction and there aren’t a lot of skeletons in his closet.
¹⁹⁰
Armed with a travel mug of coffee, an anticipatory smile, and a kiss on the cheek, he was off to the bus stop this morning, thus beginning a new chapter of our lives.

And it’s about damn time, as we have something like $5 left, most of it in coins.

Now that I don’t have to spend my days actively worrying about basic needs, I’ve decided to rearrange my career goals and focus on finding a way to get paid to write. But before I embark on my great writing career, I’ve got to get this out of my system.

Ahem.

Hey, all you companies that decided not to hire me in the past 685 days…remember me? No? Well, I’m the one who sent you all those resumes and clever cover letters. I’m the one who called your VPs of Sales relentlessly to alert them to my availability. It was me who went to every lame, horrific, and uncomfortable networking event just to try to meet some of you live. Those were my ads you saw in the
Chicago Tribune
and
Chicago Reader
just to show you I existed. (And if you recall, I was the gal who received nothing for my efforts except emails from perverts.)

To refresh your memory, I’m the lady who submitted to your pre-employment quizzes, allowed you to query my credit and education records, peed into your plastic cups, and was grilled by person after person at your company. Remember when you had me interview with six different people? And when you had me present a business plan that you eventually stole?

It was me who smiled through gritted teeth, nodded and said with my heart in my throat, “That sounds great!” when you told me about base salaries $40K less than I had just made doing the exact same job. And I’m the one who stood by the mailbox, cordless phone in hand, waiting for you to tell me something…anything. Seriously, you don’t know that I’m the woman who moved to the ’hood, and sold her jewelry, her car, heck, most all of her stuff once her unemployment checks ran out so that I could pay rent while I kept trying to attract your attention?

You don’t recall that I’m the one who cried and felt worthless and doubted my once highly sought-after abilities because I couldn’t even get a receptionist job? It was me who spent 22 months having the same uncomfortable telephone conversation with my parents about my lack of progress. And you didn’t know that between buying pantyhose and taking cabs, I spent a thousand dollars for the privilege of doing so, and yet have nothing to show for the effort?

Well, guess what…
I remember you.

So, to all you companies that didn’t hire me, I say, PISS OFF!

You had your chance to hire me, you bastards! So don’t you come sniffing around here now. I wouldn’t accept your lousy, thankless sales job on a double-dog dare! I’m taking every bit of competitive information I have to my grave! Ha! You will never benefit from my contacts or expertise or professionalism! Your copy machines and press releases and financial services are going to have to sell themselves because I refuse to ever do it for you again! I gave you every opportunity to bring me on board. You had your chance; you blew it.

You’re on your own now, Corporate America…

…good fucking luck.

Fletch has been at his new job now for a couple of weeks. He gets up at five a.m. so that he can catch the bus by six in order to get the train at six twenty. I’m up with him, making breakfast, packing lunch, fixing coffee, and ironing shirts. I figure if he’s going to be tired all day, I’ll be tired with him. Plus, having the opportunity to pursue my dream of being a writer is a small price to pay.

Our first priority is getting another car, and we should be able to do so within the next couple of months, if we sock away all Fletch’s commissions. As the downstairs neighbors have declared war on us since my little comment, I’d like to live elsewhere. However, it’s not realistic right now. When we advertised for sub-leasers a couple of weeks ago, no one was interested, so unloading this place will probably be harder than I thought. Thankful as I am to have a Chicago roof over my head, I’m not going to stress about it.

I think maybe we’ve come out of this unscathed.

“Hello?” I reach the phone on the last ring before voice mail takes the call. I almost missed it because I was upstairs wrestling a towel into my overstuffed bag. Shayla and I are about to take advantage of the last nice day before school starts, so we’re off to the beach.

My brother is on the line. “Jen, I’ve been trying to call you—where have you been?”

“Showering and taking the dogs out and stuff. I’m going somewhere, and I didn’t want to get stuck having a boring conversation about Indiana basketball with you. Seriously, if I didn’t care about high school sports when I was IN high school, why on earth would I care now?”

“Did you listen to any of my voice mails?”

“No, why would I? All you ever say is ‘Pick up, pick up, pick up’ because you refuse to accept it’s VOICE MAIL and not an answering machine. Anyway, is this going to take long? I’ve got to get going.”

“Dammit, Jennifer, stop talking. Our mother was in an accident this morning.”

“
What?
What happened? I thought she was in Connecticut. Is she OK?”

“Auntie Virginia was driving Mom to the airport in Hartford, and they were hit by a truck. The car was totaled. Auntie Virginia is fine, but Mom’s in the hospital with broken ribs and a punctured lung. They hit a guardrail on her side of the car. The doctor says she’s going to be OK, but it was touch and go there for a little while.” So when I was busy watching
The Price Is Right
and playing fetch with Loki, my mother was bleeding on the side of a highway? I suddenly want to throw up.