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 (4 page)

Chad turned beet red and busied himself with his shoes. I caught Courtney’s eye in the mirror and raised an eyebrow at her. Her flush confirmed the most indelicate of my suspicions. So busted.

Witnessing their guilt helped me recover my composure. “Oh, gr-gr-grow up,” I finally sputtered. “What I meant to ask is if you’re going down for cocktail hour?” They nodded in sheepish silence. We stood around looking at one another for a minute, and I realized I needed to take command of the situation lest they fall back into bed. I snapped into drill sergeant mode, determined not to let Courtney’s indiscretion in any way mar
my
big night. Dammit, I was about to win the market leadership award, and this victory would not be overshadowed by tawdry gossip about my team.

“OK, you need to fix yourself up, pronto. Take a quick shower because you REEK of Chad’s cologne. And, Chad, really? Drakkar Noir? No.” They stood mute in front of me, not moving.

“Courtney, when you’re done in the shower, be sure to go heavy on the foundation to cover up the whisker burn,” I said pointedly in Chad’s direction yet again, “and I’ll find you an outfit to mask your—ahem—
hickey
.” I directed her toward the bathroom with a gentle shove. “GO! Don’t worry. I’ll entertain your gentleman caller.” Reluctantly, she entered the bathroom and closed the door.

“Well, Chad, we’re faced with the dilemma of covering a hickey because apparently you make out like a high school sophomore. Let’s see…scarves, scarves, does she have any scarves in here? Oh, I see some attached to the headboard, so, yeah, scarves are probably out. My, my, aren’t
you
an interesting first date?”

I headed over to her closet to paw through the hanging garments, lingering over each item I inspected. “Let’s see, no…no…cute but V-neck, so no…Ew, this one’s atrocious, don’t you think?” I asked, waving the hideous embroidered tunic in front of me like it was made of kryptonite. “Chad, could you fuck a girl wearing a shirt this ugly? Wait, don’t answer that. OK, no…no…Ooh, this one would look good on me,” I said, holding a blouse up while admiring myself in the mirror, “but, no, it won’t work for tonight. Almost out of options here. No, no, hey…wait, we’re in luck! This will nicely do the trick.”

I banged on the bathroom door, yelling over the sound of rushing water. “Yo! You’re going to wear your cream sleeveless Ann Taylor turtleneck. Pair it with those cute Stuart Weitzman snakeskin slides, your khaki Gap Capris, and a wide black belt, and no one will know you’ve been whoring around this afternoon. And you know what would totally enhance the outfit?
Your engagement ring.
”

Task complete, I examined the contents of Courtney’s minibar. “Can I fix you a drink?” Chad appeared to be mortified beyond belief. Good. I’d heard through the corporate grapevine he was trouble, and I didn’t want him corrupting
my
top producer.

“Yes, please,” Chad croaked.

I tossed ice in glasses, poured a couple of strong gin and tonics, and grabbed a can of macadamia nuts. I settled on the couch across from him. He clung to his drink like a drowning man to a life preserver. “Oh, Chad, I’m making you nervous, aren’t I? Forgive me. I’m just really protective of my friend. I guess I let the rumors about your lack of ethics affect how I treated you, and I’m sorry. I bet you’re a really nice guy and not nearly as slimy as everyone says. Why don’t we start over, maybe get to know one another?”

Exhaling for the first time since I’d entered the room, Chad said, “I’d like that.”

I gave him an angelic smile and said, “Tell me, Chad, what do you like to do for fun when you’re not nailing other people’s fiancées in a sadomasochistic manner?”

Anyway, I’d thought I’d nipped yesterday’s infidelity in the bud, but Courtney and Chad have been pounding beer today and have completely lost their inhibitions. Right now they’re snuggled up in a sheltered corner of the boat and—
are they heavy petting
? Fortunately, the way we’re all sitting, I’m the only one who can see them.

Though it’s probably none of my business, I’m pissed because Courtney’s fiancé, Brad, is such a nice guy. He worships her. Sometimes we do couple stuff together and that obligates me to protect him. Hell, he took her to Hawaii two weeks ago, and she didn’t get back until right before we left for Florida. I doubt his credit card statements have come yet. Besides, her slutty behavior makes the whole Chicago office look bad.
¹⁹
Their mashing gets more heated. I see tongue. Ugh. I stand on my chair and shout, “
WAITRESS! DRINKS! NOW!”

Oh, Court, just because you look like Sharon Stone in
Basic Instinct
doesn’t give you license to act like her. C’mon, guys, these are your coworkers and this graphic public display of affection is both embarrassing and unprofessional, and…wait a second—
Courtney,
W
HERE DID YOUR HAND JUST GO?

GAH! This is a
company function
and in broad daylight, you are giving Chad a—

The waitress returns with beverages at this exact moment. I can tell from the look on her face that A) she also witnessed Courtney’s
busy
hands and B) she’s utterly mortified. Bad touch! The rest of our group notices the waitress’ discomfort and cranes to see what she’s gawping at.

For God’s sake, now I’m going to have to something noble to distract everyone from Courtney and Chad and what looks like the beginning of a porno movie. And chivalry is SO not my style.

“Hey!” I bark so abruptly that the server almost drops all the drinks she’s carrying. It’s also loud enough to bring Ron Jeremy and Jenna Jameson to their senses. Everyone looks at me while the horn dogs pull themselves apart.

I yank a crisp hundred-dollar bill out of my coordinating floral Kate Spade wallet and smack it on the waitress’ tray. “Next time, could you please serve our drinks a little faster?” I tap the face of my TAG Heuer watch while my enormous Lagos Caviar jeweled ring catches the light. “The clock is ticking, you know.”

Her eyes narrow, but she accepts the tip. White lipped, she tucks my Benjamin into her cargo shorts while glaring hot-red death at me. But I had to divert everyone’s attention somehow, right? Had I been thinking, I would have yelled, “Shark!”

I arrange a smirk on my face for the benefit of my companions and shrug. “I just don’t like to wait,” I explain as the waitress retreats. Everyone hoots in appreciation, except for Courtney, who silently mouths
thanks
at me.

Yeah, you’re welcome. Because that waitress is
SO
spitting in my next cocktail.

Our conference ends without incident and we head home to Chicago. Fletch will pick Courtney and me up from O’Hare. Even though we’ve been together forever, he still voluntarily does the airport run, and if that’s not a true sign of love, I don’t know what is. Except maybe a princess-cut Tiffany engagement ring…

Actually, our not being engaged is my fault. I keep upping the ante on the cut, color, clarity, and carat that I require, and I think he’s afraid to price rings. Yes, he’s successful, but I doubt that Bill Gates could keep me in the kind of jewelry that I want. Besides, a ceremony isn’t necessary for him to prove his feelings to me, especially since we have a very expensive apartment to support.

OK, I will admit the idea of a big Michigan Avenue production, complete with all my sorority sisters in hideous matching satin dresses,
²⁰
a scrillion yellow tulips tied with pink-and-mint-plaid ribbons, and a big catered to-do at the Drake with a top-shelf open bar and peapod-wrapped shrimp trays circulating while a string quartet plays right before your choice of prime rib or lobster tails is served
may have crossed my mind
. But only once or twice.

Courtney and I meet up at the baggage claim to wait for Fletch. Until now, we haven’t had a chance to talk. She sat with Chad on the bus from the resort and dawdled with him so long in the Jacksonville airport that we couldn’t get seats together on the flight. At one point, I noticed her quietly crying on the plane. Out of guilt, I assumed.

I interrogate her about what happened with the Chadifornicator, and Courtney blurts out that she’s in love.

“Of course, you’re in love. That’s why you’re getting married. It’s not uncommon,” I say.

“No, with Chad. I’m in love with Chad,” she sniffs.

“WHAT?!?” I shout, attracting the attention of every single person on flight 973 from Atlanta waiting around carousel five in the baggage claim. “You met him five freaking minutes ago! That’s not enough time to fall in love. That’s not even enough time to fall in like. Lust? Maybe, but definitely not like. And
what about Brad
? Did you NOT just get engaged?”

“I know,” she weeps. “I’d been planning to break up with Brad because things just weren’t working anymore between us. But then Hawaii was so romantic and the sun was setting and waves were crashing and we were drinking mai tais and his proposal was so sweet…I didn’t think. I just let myself get swept up in the moment. I knew it was wrong the minute I said yes. I haven’t even told my family about our engagement yet,” she says. Her eyes get watery and she begins to sniffle. I root around in my bag to find her a Kleenex.
Ooh, look, I have gum!

I remember something. “Wait, weren’t you drinking mai tais with Chad at the sales conference when you hooked up?”

Courtney blows her nose while nodding yes.

“Essentially, you allowed a fruity rum punch to alter the course of your life TWICE? Oh, my God, you’re such a WHORE!” This brings a fresh spate of tears. I know I should be more compassionate, but when you sleep around while wearing someone else’s ring, I have trouble mustering sympathetic noises.

“Court…Court…COURTNEY! Listen to me. You have to be honest with Brad. Not later. Now. You cannot string him along anymore. It’s just not right.” Courtney begins to cry huge racking sobs.

“People are looking at us. Can you please make them stop?” she begs.

“What do you expect? Acting like a whore attracts attention. They probably think you’re here to go on
Jerry Springer
.”

“WAH!”

“OK, OK, I’m on it.” I look around. Although everyone from the Atlanta flight has collected their luggage, they’ve yet to leave. A sweaty fat man with an orange flowered vinyl bag has moved right next to us to hear better. I whirl around to face him. “Yo, Marlon Brando, yeah, with the ugly carry-on, move along. Also? Burn that bag when you get home.” I see an older woman with stop sign red hair pretending to tie her shoes. Perhaps if they weren’t LOAFERS her ruse would be more credible. “And you, Red? Aren’t you old enough to know better? FYI, a six-dollar box of hair color is NOT a bargain. Get going. And the rest of you?” I sweep the crowd with an accusatory finger. “Seriously, piss off. This does not concern you.” I stomp a pony-skinned mule and make shooing motions.

We attract the attention of airport security. An officer cautiously moves toward us and I see him pat his waist in the direction of his side arm. “Oh, keep your polyester pants on, Rent-a-Cop,” I say, waving dismissively in his direction. “Everything is fine. The situation is handled. My friend here is simply dealing with the ramifications of being a whore.”

“Please stop calling me that!” she howls.

“Stop making me. If you know in your heart that it’s over, then you have to do the right thing. Promise me that you’ll end it with Brad before you take up with Chad.
²¹
You owe him that much.”

She whimpers and nods. “I promise.”

At this moment, Fletch breaks through the retreating travelers. He looks at their shell-shocked faces and shakes his head. He readily recognizes the victims of Hurricane Jen. “Hey, stranger, welcome home! How was your trip?” he asks while giving me a bear hug. He swoops down to grab my bags. Didn’t I say he was a keeper? “Jen, you left with two bags, but now I see four. You do some shopping?”

“I had to buy extra bags for all the treats I bought you.”

“I’ll bet.” His face is wreathed in an ironic smile. Apparently he didn’t care for last present I got him…a pink Ralph Lauren V-neck tennis sweater that
just happened
to fit me.

He notices Courtney and says a cautious hello as he takes in her tearstained countenance. I shake my head and whisper, “Don’t ask,” as we stroll to short-term parking.

On the drive back to the city, Fletch attempts to distract us with boring stories about work. Oh, sweetie, I love you, but do you really think anyone in this car cares about the IP-data-transport-telecom-bandwidth-blah-blah-whatever-it-is-you-do? Your job is to look pretty and keep earning fat commission checks, agreed? Agreed.

We get back to the city and drop Courtney at her high-rise apartment over by the lakefront. In the rearview mirror, I see her whip out her cell phone and one of our company’s business cards. She’s calling Chad! Stinking liar. I roll down my window and shout, “Get off the phone, whore!” as we pull away. Courtney smiles and give me a wan one-finger wave, phone cradled in her shoulder as her doorman grabs her bags.

“What happened to Courtney?” Fletch asks.

I sigh. “Mai tais.”

The What Street Journal?

Washington Times-Herald
Opinion Page, March 6, 2001

$6 HOT DOG BETTER BE GOOD

Rarely do I feel the need to skewer a family member publicly, but recently my younger sister made a comment that deserves some scrutiny.

My sister, a successful high-tech something.com salesperson in her early 30s recently announced that Chicago was “growing a little too small” and she might be ready to move on. Hoping for the best, we thought that she might be ready to move a little closer to home. We were wrong.

She said that she thought the Big Apple was in her future because Chicago was just “too Midwestern.”

We decided to dissect this statement over breakfast. Having lived in the New York metropolitan area, I felt I could give my sister some loving advice.

First we looked at housing. We established that her old Lincoln Park apartment (one bedroom) would quadruple in cost to $3600 per month in midtown Manhattan. I assume that this prime location would give her unfettered access to the beautiful East River and $40/day parking spots.

She said she would have better access to Broadway shows. When I asked her how her life has been short-changed by having to wait six months for the three Broadway shows she has actually seen, she quickly moved on.

On to restaurants. She said that New York has the best restaurants in the world and one can get whatever they want around the clock. I reminded her that no one actually goes to those places, they just talk about how nice it would be if they could. And if the food is so great, then why do all those people stand around eating $6 hot dogs?

I guess “too Midwestern” would also mean she would get four extra ounces of steak for the same price in Chicago, but she wouldn’t have access to goat tripe at 4:00 AM.

Books, music, shopping—all were bantered about at the kitchen and I felt like I made a pretty good argument for man’s ability to survive if one had to shop at Marshall Field on Michigan Ave instead of Bloomingdale’s on Fifth Ave.

The final straw was coffee. She said the Big Apple had better coffee than Chicago and that was an important part of her daily routine.

So we added up the totals for the environmental bliss of life in Gotham, $3600 in rent, $1200 a month in parking, $12 a day in coffee, $200 a week in Broadway tickets, and $96 a month in hot dogs.

After explaining that the rest of America goes to about one movie a month, pays an average of $600 a month for a mortgage, and could make four car payments on the $1200 a month parking fee, I knew I had made an impact.

My sister turned to me and said, “I suppose I could do without the hot dogs.”

—Todd Lancaster

Ah, home sweet home. Fletch hauls my bags up the fifty steps to our apartment…the one drawback to living in the penthouse. You’d think my ass would be smaller from all the climbing.

As I unpack, I shiver with delight over all the designer labels…Tomatsu, Karen Kane, Dana Buchman, Ralph Lauren, a few prized pieces of Chanel and Versace, etc. I really ought to thank Shelly Decker for my fabulous wardrobe. No, Shelly isn’t my personal shopper. She’s the hateful little troll who drew the thinly disguised comic strip about me (
Muffy the Preppy,
my ass) and abused her position as features editor to place it smack on page two of our high school newspaper. If it hadn’t been for her public goading, I’d never have become the fashionista I am today. Even almost eighteen years later, my blood boils about the day I saw that stupid cartoon….

“Look at this,” I shrieked while throwing open the front door and tossing my book bag in the corner. “Look! LOOK! I have been
wronged!
”

“S’matter with you, Peeg?” Todd asked from the couch in the family room off the kitchen. My brother had stationed himself there before I left for school hours earlier, apparently still recuperating from his freshman year of college. He’d indulged in a steady diet of ginger ale and
Gomer Pyle
reruns for the past three days. The nine months without him in the house had been heavenly, as his sole purpose in life was to make mine miserable. Normally I’d attack him for the “peeg” comment (really, how can you be a pig when you can squeeze into size five Jordache jeans?) but I had other priorities.

“I’m not talking to you, TOAD. Mom, look at this…. It’s awful! I’m ruined! I have been personally attacked!” I wailed while wildly waving a copy of my high school newspaper.

“Oh, Jen, I’m sure you’re overreacting again. Let me see.” Mom put down her load of clean laundry and perused the offered page, eyes scanning back and forth. She wrinkled her brow. “You’re ruined because the drama club chose
Little Mary Sunshine
for the fall play?”

“No, it’s this right here!” I stabbed the offending section with a pointed finger.

“The
Muffy the Preppy
comic strip?”

“Yes! Read it!”

“Muffy the Preppy says…hmm, hmm, hmm…
real
pearls from Hudsons…hmm, hmm…shut up, you animals…hmm, hmm…and I’m done. It’s cute. Did you draw this?”

“MOTHER! How could you think it’s cute? That bitch Shelly Decker drew this about ME! See? She’s got the pearls and the Shet-land sweater tied around the shoulders and everything. And it’s the last day of school, and this insult is all anyone will think about the whole summer.”

“I know you feel you’re an adult, but you may not swear in this house.” Over my mother’s shoulder, I could see Todd making faces and flipping me off. I’d deal with him later. “I think you’re being melodramatic. What’s the big deal?”

“Do you not understand that I have a reputation to uphold in that school? I cannot just have my character assassinated by the media.”

“Sorry,
Zsa Zsa
, I forgot that you were so averse to negative publicity.” My mother resumed folding the load of whites she’d been holding.

“Mother! You’re not taking this seriously! Don’t mock me! I had to work really hard to fit in here after we moved from New Jersey. It took YEARS for me to work my way up to the semicool crowd, and I had to lose the atrocious Jersey accent to do it. The last thing I need is some asshole pointing out how I’m different from the rest of them. Don’t you realize that the animals separated from the herd die? DO YOU WANT ME TO DIE??”

“WATCH THE MOUTH, missy. I understand you’re upset. What I don’t understand is why Shelly would draw a cartoon about you. She’s your best friend.”

“Well, yes, she was, but not anymore.”

“Since when?”

“A while, OK?”

Todd interjected, “Hey, Mom, better get Dad’s attorney on the phone to talk about suing the school paper for libel.”

“MOM!”

“Now you’re both being ridiculous. Todd, pipe down. What happened with Shelly?”

“It was all her fault.”

“Jennifer, what did you do?” Why did she always assume it was my fault?
²²

“She was jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Nothing.”

“I think there’s more to the story,” Todd volunteered helpfully from the other room.

“Shut UP, Toad. OK, remember when you had to go back to Boston to help Grampa after his surgery? Well, I kind of wore your pearls while you were out of town.”

“I do not recall giving you permission to wear them.”

“I was allowed to because Dad saw them on me and didn’t say I couldn’t.”

“Not an excuse. Your father is oblivious. He didn’t notice for three weeks when we painted the den. But why would my necklace upset Shelly?”

“I might have mentioned they were
real
pearls. From Hudsons.”

“So?”

“About fifteen times.”

My mother sighed deeply. “Where did we go wrong with you? You didn’t learn this behavior from me. When I was your age, I never had new clothes. All I had were the items my sisters handed down to me. The only reason I dressed as nicely as I did was because I taught myself to sew and—”

“Is this where you tell us how you only had one pair of wool socks when you were a girl and you had to hand wash them every night?” I whined.
²³

“I can’t believe she has
any
friends the way she acts,” my brother added. Why couldn’t I have been born an only child?

“Shove it, frat boy. Mom, do you see the problem I have? Shelly just threw down the gauntlet, OK? She issued a challenge. If she’s going to label me in a public forum, then I have to be the preppiest preppy to ever walk the halls of my high school. Now that I’ve been singled out, I’m obligated to deliver. People are going to expect it. I didn’t start this feud, but I’ll be damned if I don’t finish it. So, I’m going to need a LOT of new stuff for back to school. Why don’t you get Dad’s credit card and we can start shopping now. You know, beat the rush and all.”

“Ha! Good one, Jen.”

“You’re not going to help me? Why? Because of your boring sock story?”

“You get $100 for back-to-school clothes, and you know it, and that amount will decrease if you don’t watch it with the cusses. If you want more than I plan to pay for, then I suggest you get a job.”

“How am I supposed to do that? I can’t drive yet, and there’s no place to work in this stupid subdivision.”

“When I was your age, I made money for fabric by watching my sister’s children. This neighborhood is full of kids—why don’t you give babysitting a try?”

“But I hate kids.”

“Yet you love money.”

“You make an excellent point.”

Why had I never considered babysitting before? Our neighborhood was crawling with little kids…. It was a veritable gold mine! I quickly ran figures in my head—if I could earn fifty dollars a week for the next ten weeks of summer, then—holy cats!—I’d be the best-dressed girl in the whole TOWN. Visions of pink oxford cloth and tartan plaid danced in my head. With five hundred dollars, I’d get tassel AND penny loafers, puffy velvet headbands, whale-print mini-skirts, and a Bermuda bag to match every outfit!

“Do you think if I typed up a flyer Dad’s secretary could make copies? That way I could pass them out to neighbors.”

“I’m sure she would if you asked nicely.”

“I’m going to work on it now!” I grabbed my book bag and headed for the stairs. Remembering something I’d left undone, I returned to the kitchen. “I forgot to tell you guys…hey, Toad?” I pulled an envelope from my bag and handed it to my mother. “Your grades came today!” I dashed to my room as the blood drained from my brother’s face.

That’s how in the summer of 1983 I became known as Babysitter Über Alles. I was in demand, but not because of my tremendous prowess with children. I’ve never been great with kids—they are self-centered, attention-grabbing, illogical, sticky little beasts with terrible taste in TV shows.
²⁴

I was nice to my charges for the most part, but any maternal stirrings I might have had were squelched by their shrill voices and garbled English, which I found annoying, not endearing. Don’t get me started on their rambling stories and barrages of precocious questions. “Jen, why do the birds sing? Jen, why does the grass grow? Jen, how do sharks sleep? Jen, why is the sky blue?”
The sky is blue because God hates you, OK?
Worst of all, kids always seemed to think it was
all about them.

And everyone knows it’s really all about me.

The sole reason I was popular was because I tackled housework without being asked. My clients knew that upon their return, they’d find gleaming appliances, empty sinks, and pristine carpets. I quickly learned that elbow grease equaled more penny loafers and oxford cloth shirts, and the more I had, the more Shelly would turn pink and green with envy. Heh.

Much as children annoyed me, dealing with them was a necessary evil. Once one young insurgent, Daniel Bedlamski, wouldn’t get out of the pool, forcing me to enact Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #95:
First Ask Nicely and Precisely.
I crafted these rules of engagement to better deal with Danny, as arguing with him instead of scrubbing had cost me more than one tip.

Prior to his refusal, I’d been perusing for the umpteenth time my new personal bible and style guide,
The Official Preppy Handbook.
I flipped through it while keeping one eye on Danny, as I figured his drowning might negatively affect my compensation. But then he wouldn’t get out of the pool, so I closed the book and headed toward the water.

I swiftly removed my Bass Weejuns and argyle socks. I cuffed my khaki walking shorts, climbed down the first two steps in the shallow end, and met Danny’s gaze. I smiled and adjusted my strand of pearls.
²⁵
He splashed a bit and grinned back at me, his white-blond hair slick with water, cheeks pink and freckled, and cerulean blue eyes dancing. Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #37:
The More Angelic They Look, the More Evil They Are.
With Danny’s cherubic features, he was the devil incarnate.

Sweetly, I said, “Danny, honey, I asked you to please get out of the pool.” I’d taken to calling the kids endearing pet names instead of swearing since I’d been fired for calling Markie Everhart a “fucktard.”
²⁶

Danny shook his head wildly and droplets of water made patterns on my linen shorts. He squealed and shrieked while I smiled more widely through gritted teeth. (Jen’s Babysitting Axiom #421:
Assume a Healthy Glow, Agitation Never Show.
) I flipped up the collars on my layered polo shirts and tilted my head in the trademark flirty manner Britney Spears would eventually steal from me.