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 (11 page)

“You—you can write the amount off on your taxes,” Bob stuttered.

“How about medical insurance and 401(k)? Surely not another six-month wait?”

“Unfortunately, yes, because—”

“Bob, exactly what led you to believe I’d buy your bait and switch? What made you think, ‘Hey, this girl is a sucker’? Can you please help me understand what prompted you to waste my afternoon for a job which shakes out to approximately $1000 per month, or $250 per week, before taxes and without benefits? Bob, I’d really like to know so that I can remove that section from my résumé.”

“As I stated earlier, you have the opportunity to earn big money after the probationary period.”

“Unfortunately, I cannot spend the next six months living on a salary
below the national poverty line.
I don’t see how anyone could.”

“You’d be surprised how many people take this job,” snapped Bob.

“Well, I won’t be one of them. Thanks for your time, Bob, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a bathroom to paint.”

I can remember when the phone
used
to ring with fabulous job offers. And now…not so much.

Ring, ring, ring…

“Mr. Banfield, I’m sure death
is
a growth industry…. Uh-huh, I understand…. Regardless, I just can’t see myself selling funeral services…. No, it’s not a ‘corpse thing.’ I feel I lack the emotional capacity to deal with those in mourning…. I appreciate your contacting me, and I wish you the best of luck with your search.”

Ring, ring, ring…

“Jack, I don’t think you’re hearing me. I guess I need to be more direct. How about this? I’d rather sear my own eyes out with burning hot coals than sell life insurance door to door…. No, I’m not willing to consider accidental death and dismemberment insurance, either…. OK, then, thanks for calling.”

Ring, ring, ring…

“Yes, Wally, it does sound like a ‘hella good’ opportunity, and I’m flattered you thought of me…. The problem is, I have no plans to move to Tunica County, Mississippi, in the near future…. Um, no, I guess I
wasn’t
aware of the thriving casino boat industry down there…. No, no, that doesn’t sway my decision…. Nope, not even if you throw in free passes to the buffet…. Aren’t you sweet? I hope you keep rollin’ sevens, too.”

My parents arrived this afternoon because they’re flying to Hawaii from O’Hare airport first thing tomorrow morning. We’re up on the deck enjoying the setting sun and mild October temperatures.

“I can’t believe you guys are flying already,” I say.

“Pfft,” my mother replies. “I’m not letting a bunch of kooks ruin my trip.” Of course. America wasn’t hit on 9/11 because of radical Islamo-fascist ideology; we were attacked specifically to mess up my mother’s vacation plans. Fortunately, she refuses to let the terrorists win.

“There was a picture of the hotel where we’re staying on the cover of the
New York Times
yesterday. On a mass expanse of sand, there was one person in a lawn chair,” sighs Big Daddy contentedly. My father hates crowds.

“I really think this trip is a terrible idea. I’m very concerned about the both of you being on a plane,” I press.

“Oh, Jennifer, you’re being ridiculous. Everything will be fine,” my mother says. See what I mean? Things are fine
because she says so.
She won’t let those pesky armed National Guardsmen lead her to believe air travel is anything but ducky. Noni, Mom’s eccentric Sicilian mother, was exactly the same way. Everything was a statement of fact, regardless of the amount of evidence to the contrary. For example, because Noni hated artificial ingredients, she held a grudge against General Foods. She’d tell us she could make General Foods burn down if she said it three times. Of course, she’d only say it twice—she didn’t want to abuse her “special powers”—so we were never able to prove her wrong.
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“Anyway, enough about us,” she continues. “What’s happening with you two? I kept expecting to get a call when you were in Vegas over Labor Day. I had my bags packed in case you decided to elope!”

“Fletch?” I ask.

Glancing at his watch, he replies, “Eighteen minutes.”

Frankly I’m shocked she lasted that long.

“Every time you bug us, we postpone the engagement one month. As it stands now, don’t expect nuptials till fall 2026.”

“Fine, I won’t pressure you.” Yeah, right. “Anyway, I love what you’ve done to the bathroom. With your crazy work hours, when did you have time to do it? It looks like you spent day after day sanding and painting.”

Fletch starts to answer, but I interrupt. He’s been warned not to talk about my layoff since I’ve yet to break the news to my parents. But I’m afraid he’ll slip up and mention I’ve got NOTHING but time now. “Last weekend,” I say quickly. “It went really fast. The walls were sized, so the paper peeled right off. Then I used a deep-base primer, so I got it done with just a couple of coats.”

I covertly place my hand on my nose to see exactly how long it’s grown. I hate lying to my parents. But for all her good qualities, my mother tends to obsess, and I don’t want her worrying about me when she should be drinking out of hollowed coconuts on deserted beaches.

“Speaking of bathrooms, I’m going to visit yours again right now,” she says, placing her soda on the table. She heads down the stairs.

Quickly, I turn to my father, “OK, Dad, here’s the deal. I got laid off two weeks ago. Everything’s fine, and we have plenty of money. I’m interviewing and expect to land something soon. But I’m not telling Mom until you guys get back.”

Big Daddy takes a long, bracing pull of his Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks and considers what I just said. After a pause, he says, “Thank you. Airplanes don’t carry the amount of Scotch it would take to drown out the sound of that woman fixated on something. Christ, she’s
still
yammering about the time in 1973 that I was supposed to—”

“Excuse me, Big Daddy? Don’t you have anything to say about my layoff?” I ask.

“Yes. You have no income. Remember what I used to tell you when you were a little girl? ‘A fool and her money soon part.’ Current-day translation? Stop pissing away your assets at Bloomingdale’s,” he replies. Fletch bursts out laughing, and he and my father toast each other with their cut-glass tumblers.

As much as I adore both of them, I’m not thrilled when they get together. Fletch and Dad are so much alike it’s almost scary. They’ve both got dry, sarcastic senses of humor. They both exhibit their military roots by agonizing over their hair length (always too short), their shoes (polished to a liquid sheen), and properly folded maps…and just try to pull the single-malt out of either of their kung fu grips. The day Fletch dashes to the bathroom with a fresh cup of coffee and the newest issue of
Consumer Reports
, I am moving into the guest room. And when he begins sporting a belt AND suspenders? It’s over.
⁵⁸

Last year, when my folks were up for Thanksgiving, Fletch and my father hid away in the den for hours, haggling over which was the very best Internet radio station for jazz. After they left, Fletch said, “I didn’t know your dad killed someone.”

“He WHAT?” I practically shouted. “You’re teasing, right? Because I think if my dad had ENDED SOMEONE’S LIFE, I would know, especially given his propensity to tell the same story over and over. I’ve heard about his Mexican invasion at least four hundred times.”
⁵⁹

“Jen, your dad got into hand-to-hand combat when he was stationed in Korea after the war. One night he was on patrol on the border of North and South Korea and got ambushed. It was a shoot-or-be-shot situation. He didn’t have much of a choice.”

“I swear I had no idea. Was he all shaken up about it?”

“Nope, he was pretty matter-of-fact.”

“No surprise there. I can’t believe he never used that little nugget of information to his advantage, though. Imagine how much more obedient I might have been had I known. ‘You failed your geometry test, Jennifer? Now I have to kill you.’ ‘You think you’re going to a Michael Jackson concert? Over
your
dead body.’ ‘You stayed out half an hour past curfew? Here’s a shovel—start digging your grave.’ What a wasted opportunity to scare me straight.”

Anyway, seeing Dad and Fletch giggle about me like I’m not even sitting here makes me mad. Just then, my mother appears in the doorway.

“Hey, Mom, did Dad ever tell you about the time he killed a guy?”

My severance and vacation pay disappear quickly. The painting project cost way more than anticipated, and my new interviewing outfits did not come cheap.
⁶⁰

“Brett and Kim want to meet at the Adobo Grill for margaritas and I don’t have any money.” I wave Fletch’s wallet at him.

“Fool, did you part with all your money already?” Fletch asks.

“I didn’t blow it, if that’s what you’re implying,” I say. “I
invested
it in work clothes. People aren’t going to hire me dressed in rags, you know. I needed a fresh new look for interviewing, and it’s not like I threw away all my old stuff. I donated those huge boxes of last season’s clothes to the Salvation Army so I can write the cost off my taxes. And I even remembered to get a receipt this time!”

“Congratulations. You’re a true philanthropist.”

“Ha, ha. Seriously, I want money for drinks, so toss the salad,” I say with an extended palm.

Fletch forks over a wad of bills, but it’s not as selfish as it sounds. We’re pretty egalitarian around here. When Fletch was out of work for three months last year with no severance or unemployment insurance, I paid for everything. And not just rent, utilities, and groceries. I even covered his car note, insurance, and that sticky hair pomade he likes so much. For an entire quarter, I had no new clothes, no dinners in restaurants, or nights out with friends, and I had to trim my bangs myself. I never once complained about the situation, so if I need money for drinks now, it’s payback time.

Besides, Fletch says he’d never be making the money he does if I hadn’t been his cheerleader, encouraging him to go for jobs he wasn’t sure he could get and urging him to demand to be paid what he was worth. Get a couple of Scotches in him and he’ll prattle on about how meeting me changed his life for the better (of which I can never hear enough).

Growing up, he was always underestimated and considered a little weird. For example, there was a huge soybean field by where he lived. At six years old, when his contemporaries were totally into Bugs Bunny, Fletch was plagued by the philosophical question of why anyone would want to grow beans you couldn’t eat. Instead of appreciating how bright Fletch was, his dad told him he was stupid to ask that kind of question. (And, really, what the hell purpose do soybeans serve anyway?)

“Jen, when are you going to sign up for unemployment?”

“Never,” I reply.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not a deadbeat. I’m not about to suck on the government’s teat. For crying out loud, I’m a Republican. They’d kick me out of the party if I went on welfare!”

“Go get your last pay stub,” he instructs.

I dig around my files until I locate it. “Here you go.” I hand him the sheet and perch next to him on the side of his armchair.

“Look at these lines right here. You see these dollar amounts?” I nod. “This is all the money you’ve had taken out in taxes this year. Wait, maybe I should back up. You
are
aware that we have a tax system in this country, right?”

“Don’t be a jerk.” I whack him in the head with my handful of bills.

“OK, then you understand when you pay taxes, your money is distributed to federal and state governments. They use your tax dollars to fund a variety of items such as schools, fire departments, Medicare, Social Security, interest on the national debt, etc.”

“Are you about to start singing about how a bill becomes a law?”
⁶¹

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Then will you tell me why you’re giving me a civics lesson?”

“Because you need it. I’m trying to help you to understand that some of the money from right here”—he draws a circle on the page with his finger—“goes to fund unemployment claims.”

“You’re saying it’s not welfare?”

“Exactly. When you collect unemployment, you’re getting back the money YOU paid into the system for just such an occasion. It’s like collecting an insurance policy. You’ll particularly like this part—your ex-employer also has to pay a portion of your claim.”

“Those sorry Corp. Com. bastards could be funding my tequila binge tonight instead of you?”

“Precisely.”

This man knows EVERYTHING! I lunge at Fletch and knock him over with the force of my hug. “Can you love me a little less? You’re crushing my windpipe,” he gasps.

“Nope,” I reply, squeezing harder.

I spend the morning trying on and casting aside outfits in my walk-in closet. What does one wear to the unemployment office? Do I dress up? Shall I carry my briefcase? What’s the protocol? To be honest, I don’t own a lot of casual clothes. I have really dressy things for work and sleek, fun outfits for going out to chichi bistros, but not a lot of regular, weekendy stuff. I finally settle on a long skirt, sweater set, and triple strand of pearls. A quick glance in my full-length mirror confirms my suspicions. I look like a Stepford wife. Oh, well, it’s better to be overdressed than underdressed, right?

I pile on the kitchen counter all the documents I’m supposed to take with me.
⁶²
I don’t feel like carrying my heavy pad folio, so I swap out my small Burberry clutch for a large Prada shopper and shove the whole lot inside of it.

I drive to the unemployment office and circle the parking lot for what feels like hours. Judging from the number of other cars trying to find a space, I’m not encouraged about the state of the economy. I finally wedge Fletch’s SUV into the spot farthest from the door.

I walk up to the office, push open the glass doors, and am immediately greeted by a couple of friendly gentlemen. They usher me in and offer me coffee. How delightfully civilized! They want to know all about me, and we have a lovely chat about patriotism. This is great; I bet they find a job for me in no time. I heard all kinds of horror stories about filing for unemployment benefits, but everyone must have been exaggerating because these people are
so
helpful. Maybe it’s because I look pretty today? No, I bet they’re impressed with my bag.
⁶³