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 (23 page)

The people aren’t as friendly, though, probably because instead of being unemployed, most of them are consultants with flexible schedules. And whereas Walsh Park is an interesting potpourri of people and mixed-breed mutts, Churchill is all about purebreds and their humorless Lexus SUV–driving, Accenture-working, North Face–clad owners.

We’re here on Saturday afternoon, and it’s like a Westminster Kennel Club competition. There’s easily $15,000 worth of dogs dashing up and down the gravel run.

“Uh-oh,” I say to Fletch, gesturing toward the south gate. “Here comes THAT guy.” A small, tidy, fussy man wearing those weird Donald J. Pliner elf shoes and immaculate chinos saunters into the park, being towed by his gigantic, gay boxers Marcel and Gilbert.
¹²⁶

“What’s wrong with him?” Fletch asks.

“You’ll see.”

As soon as they’re released, Marcel and
Zhjill-BEHR
begin to humpity-pumpity every dog that crosses their path, particularly disturbing because the dogs still possess their
factory-installed
equipment. Icky. Small Tidy Fussy man simply reads his
Paris Match
and, instead of disciplining his dogs, ignores the whole scene. While Loki romps with Maisy, Marcel sneaks up behind him and climbs aboard. Loki growls and snaps at Marcel and then continues to play.

“Pardonnez-moi,”
yells Small Tidy Fussy man. “Your dog, he attacked mine. You should get your violent dogs out of here.” At the moment, Maisy’s on her back letting a Jack Russell lick her goodies while Fletch attaches her leash. Loki sits at attention, waiting his turn.

“Wait a minute. You have the nerve to let your dogs hump and jump, doing nothing about it, and then you blame
my
dog for following his instinct?”

“Every time I come here, your dog attacks mine, no?”

“That’s because every time your dogs
corn hole
mine. Given the choice, my dogs prefer
not
to be date-raped. Maybe if you’d actually follow park rules and neuter them, we wouldn’t have this problem.”

“Do you know how much my boxers are worth? I need their seed for breeding purposes. It is
most
important. And I can’t have your aggressive”—he pauses to sneer—“
junkyard dogs
marring their looks by biting them.”

OK, that does it. You can insult my parentage, intelligence, or taste but you DO NOT say disparaging things about my dogs. “It’s obvious you’re worried about protecting your investment, not your dogs. And anyone who considers his pets to be an investment is simply loathsome.” I look to the crowd for their support. At Walsh Park, my entire posse would be standing behind me. But here? No one will even meet my gaze.

“Well, yes, I can see where your dogs get their violent streak,” he snorts.

I whip off my mittens and toss them to the ground, shouting, “Violent? You think these sweet, loving creatures are violent? OH, I WILL
SHOW
YOU VIOLENCE, YOU FROGGY LITTLE—” Then Fletch yanks me and the dogs out of the park.

As I’m dragged down Winchester Avenue, Fletch clears his throat. “So that went well.”

I am hopping mad. “How dare that Francophile accuse our dogs of being violent? They’re afraid of the cats
and
the vacuum. And why is everyone at Churchill Park such a jerk anyway? Why can’t they be cool like my friends at Walsh?”

“It’s the neighborhood—it’s changed. When we moved here, there was an equal mix of dot-commers, artists, and immigrants. Now developers are paying top dollar for lots, and the Mexican and Polish families are moving out of the area. Prices are escalating so fast it’s only consultants and brokers who can live here. Plus, they’re snapping up the spaces vacated by the dot-com refugees because they all moved home to Wheaton to live with their parents.”

“I hate how different everything is now.”

“I do, too. The neighborhood’s so sanitized. Remember when we first moved here how dangerous it was to be on the street at night? Now when I walk the dogs after dark, I run into yuppie families holding children eating gelato on their shoulders. The whole place has been Disneyfied and the worst part is we can barely afford it anymore.”

“Do you”—I try to swallow the lump in my throat—“do you think it might be time for us to move?” We walk silently for a minute until we get to the front door of our building. We wait to enter while a mother—talking on her cell phone—navigates a high-tech stroller containing a child wearing Gore-Tex and tiny Merrell snow clogs. An off-leash chocolate lab trails obediently along at her side.

Fletch sighs. “Maybe so.”

Temporary Insanity

I
t won’t kill you,” Shayla says.

“It might,” I reply.

“You’re being a big baby. I did it every summer during grad school, and it was easy money. Why don’t you give it a try? It may be the answer to your problems. Not only would it give you an income now—it could lead to a full-time position.”

“But isn’t it degrading?”

“No, not so much. But assuming it were, which is more degrading in the long run: working a temp job and earning some pin money, or bitching about unemployment while sitting around in your pajamas drinking wine from a box at three in the afternoon?”

“These aren’t pajamas. They’re
lounge pants
.” I smooth out my pant legs and adjust the zipper on my gray hoodie. “Granted, they’re burgundy flannel, polar bear–print lounge pants with an open fly that I occasionally sleep in, but I also wear them to the grocery store and when I walk the dogs.”

“Saying they aren’t pajamas doesn’t make them not pajamas.”

“Whatever. Anyway, this box wine is a lot better than you’d expect. Have some.”

“I would but I’ve got to teach a class in the morning. I’ll stick to hot tea, thanks.” Shayla just got her PhD and is now an assistant professor, yet still finds time to play in an alt-country band called Brother Lowdown and, on occasion, swill wine with me in the afternoon. Shayla rocks on so many levels.

“When does Brother Lowdown have their next gig?”

“We’re doing a show Friday at the Abbey Pub.”

“Cool. We’ll try to be there.”

“If you come, will you behave yourself? They still talk about you there.”

This isn’t completely my fault. Earlier that day I had a minor meltdown over an expensive car repair, so I took a couple Xanax, forgetting about going out later. For some reason, Brother Lowdown was only on stage for half an hour, much to my dismay. Another local band called Butterside Down played after them. Their only fault was not being Brother Lowdown, yet in my addled condition, I blamed them for Brother Lowdown’s short set. Apparently antianxiety medicine and Stoli Razberi and soda don’t mix. Two bouncers forcibly removed me from the establishment for standing by the stage and shouting epithets like “Butterside Sucks! Buttersuck Sucks! Suckyside Down!”

Or so I’m told.

I woke up fully dressed in my bathtub fifteen hours later with no memory of the evening, and an odd craving for toast.

“I’ll be good,” I promise.

“By the way, nice attempt at changing the subject. Fletch said you’d try to weasel out of this chat. You brought me over here to brainstorm, yet you reject the most expedient solution. I’m telling you, temping is not that bad.”

“How about this? If—and that’s a big if—if I have an interview and I’m slated to be at a temp job, what do I do?”

Shayla whorls honey into her tea while explaining, “Unlike traditional employers, the temp agencies and their respective clients not only don’t care if you’re looking for permanent work, they expect it. If you need to go to an interview, you simply tell them in advance and they’ll get someone to cover your shift.” She squeezes a slice of fresh lemon and stirs again. “Why do you ask? Is this an issue? Have you had a lot of interviews lately?”

I sigh deeply and rub Maisy’s ears. As usual, the dogs and cats are piled all around me. I’ve cranked the heat down to 60 degrees in an effort to conserve money, and the freezing-cold critters are drawn to my body warmth. When Shayla arrived, I told her to come in, but suggested she leave her coat on. “Not even a nibble in almost two months. At this point, I’m applying for jobs that pay my starting salary out of college.”
¹²⁷

“Yikes. Have you gone to any networking events?”

“Dozens. The only people I’ve networked with are unemployed, too.”

“How many résumés have you sent?”

“Hundreds upon hundreds. I now apply for every single job I see.
¹²⁸
The few employers I’ve spoken with say they get so many résumés, they don’t even bother sending form-letter rejections anymore. But if you ask me, I think these employers are enjoying the change of economy. It’s like the ultimate payback from when all the good people left to work for Internet companies. ‘Your oh-so-important leg-wear-by-mail company didn’t work out? And now you want to come back? HA!’ They love that it’s a buyer’s market.”

“Still, sounds like you’re doing everything right, so what’s the problem?”

“There are a few factors working against me. First off, thousands of other jobless people are doing everything right, too. Plus, it’s the end of the year, and no one’s hiring until they get their budgets in January. And rumors about war certainly aren’t helping the overall employment situation. For lateral positions, I used to make too much money and priced myself out of the market.”

“Maybe your résumé is too good? What about downplaying your experience just to get a foot in the door?”

“I already dumbed-down my résumé, but it hasn’t helped. For better jobs, employers can snatch up formerly expensive, experienced people for a song. Thus my services aren’t wanted.” I fortify myself with another giant slug of wine. “And when I interviewed for lesser jobs, employers are convinced I’ll be bored. I even tried to get a part-time position with a dog-walking company, figuring the exercise would help me lose weight, and the owner said if I couldn’t give him a year’s commitment, he wasn’t interested. So here I sit in my pajamas, drinking bargain wine, completely out of ideas.”

Shayla opens her backpack and takes out a business card. “Here’s my temp agency’s owner’s number. His name is Chuck and he’s a nice guy. Tell him I sent you, and you’ll probably get a placement right away.” Shayla tries to hand me the card, but I’m hesitant to touch it. “Take it. It won’t bite you. Call him.” She looks me up and down before adding, “Now.”

With much reluctance, I accept the card. “I remember a time when I used to like you.”

“Self-pity and elastic waist pants do not suit you. Call them. You’ll thank me when you cash your first check.”

Fletch and I discussed it and determined I should give temping a whirl.
¹²⁹
What it boils down to is I temp or we’ll have no choice but to move to a cheaper neighborhood. Yes, we’ve talked about moving, but we should move because we
want
to, not because we
have
to. Our rent is taking a huge bite out of Fletch’s severance package and our strict budget doesn’t allow for extras like Christmas presents or wine in bottles.

I sucked it up and called Shayla’s temp agency. And here I am, going through the intake process, ready to take my timed typing test. For the first time, I feel fortunate to have attended a shitty high school that taught typing on IBM Selectrics and not computers. I just watched the last two people blow their tests because they didn’t know where to place the paper or how to operate the return carriage. Plus, they showed up for their intake assessment wearing JEANS, while I’m clad in a striking pin-striped pantsuit with a starchy white collar and my hair’s in a fabulous French twist. HA! I’m about to blow these kids out of the water.

I position myself in front of the typewriter, hands poised over the keys. Jill, the office’s receptionist, stands behind me with a stopwatch. “OK, you’re going to type for the next sixty seconds. If you make a mistake, just keep going. And…three, two, one—go!” she says.

I’m off! My fingers fly across the familiar old keys, and I bang out entire paragraphs in record time. Smoke practically rises from the machine and the motor hums while the printwheel strikes perfectly
againandagainandagainandagain
in rapid succession. The whole desk vibrates with intensity, each stroke bringing me closer to the title of Miss Typewriter 2002. By the time Jill calls stop, I’m spent with the exertion of having transposed the entire Gutenberg Bible. Victoriously, I rip the sheet out and hand it to her, waiting for my accolades. She examines my work.

“Well?” I ask expectantly. My dad’s old secretary could type 120 words per minute. He’d beg her to type more slowly because she’d burn through a typewriter per month.
¹³⁰
As fast as I just went, I’m sure I’ve tied her record.

“Looks like you can do about thirty words per minute,” Jill says.

LIES! Tremendous lies! Acknowledge my prowess! “That’s impossible. I
flew
through those paragraphs.”

“Yes, and they’re riddled with errors. You’d have been better off going a little slower. Subtracting typos, you’re at about thirty words per minute, and honestly, I’m being generous. I’m sorry to tell you that you won’t be eligible for a lot of our open jobs—most require at least forty-five words per minute. But you’re welcome to come to our office anytime so you can practice and improve.”

Pfft—I should get extra credit for even knowing what an IBM Selectric
is
. Whatever. “What’s next?” I ask.

“We’re on to the computer-skills assessment now. If you want to grab your briefcase and follow me, we can get started.”

Maybe I didn’t rock the typing test. Big deal. I will OWN the computer part. I am the reigning Queen of Spreadsheets. Sorting? I can ascend or descend by make, model, and serial number. Summation? Child’s play. You want a formula to add a 37 percent margin to base pricing, but only on select column items? Bring. It. On. And, shoot, I can do things with an Access Database that would make the baby Jesus cry. Or how about a Web page? I’ve got the
mad
HTML skillz, yo. I taught myself how to program back in the Midwest IR days when I designed the portfolio management interface. Feel free to call me Jennifer Lancaster Gates from now on.

Jill boots up the computer and opens Microsoft Word. Once we’re in the program, she hands me a heavily formatted document and tells me to replicate it. Ugh, why? I’d rather die than allow a hideous note like this go out under my letterhead. There are inserted tables and graphs and columns and about fifteen different type styles and sizes, along with breaks and footnotes and page numbers.

“Okeydokey, I’ll be back in five minutes.” Jill returns to the reception desk. I proceed cautiously, relying heavily on the happy animated Microsoft paperclip. The assignment’s not hard—it’s just tedious. If my boss ever handed me something like this, I’d sit him down to discuss aesthetics and the concept of
less is more
, rather than allow him to endorse such a schizophrenic mess.

A nanosecond later, Jill is standing over my shoulder. She prints out my work and examines it. “This is terrible! I can’t believe how bad this is! And you’re so slow. Your Word skills are negligible. Have you even
worked
in an office before?”

“Yes, I have,” I reply with a clenched jaw. I just tried my hardest and now a
receptionist
is dogging to me? I don’t
think
so. “Of course, I was a vice president, and I used to have girls
like you
who did this for me.”

Luckily Shayla placed a call to Chuck, and her recommendation is the only reason I get a placement. For the next week, I’ll be supporting the advertising sales manager of a huge home decor magazine. OK, how lucky is this? I would love to do advertising sales. My friend Kim is VP of advertising at Midwest IR, and she’s always flying somewhere fun to entertain potential clients at high-end bars and restaurants. I’m witty and charming, and clients find me delightful—I could easily sell ads. Not only am I superpersuasive, but I love this magazine. I would be a perfect fit here, and I’m going to work my hardest to make sure the sales manager takes notice.

I arrive promptly at the reception desk at eight forty-five a.m. and am greeted by a cranky old smoker named Pat. She looks and sounds exactly like Marge Simpson’s sisters, and I notice she keeps her cigarettes in their own needlepoint carrier attached with a plastic chain around her neck. “I’ll take you back to where you’re working, but first, you can put your coat in here.” She gestures to a walk-in closet that smells like a stale ashtray, so I assume this is where Pat stows her coat, too.
¹³¹

I follow Pat to the end of a long hallway and she shows me my work space. “You’ll be filling in for Kathy while she recovers.”

“So she’s sick, not on vacation?” I ask, in an effort to make friendly conversation.

“I’m sure that’s none of your business,” Pat replies. OK, so much for conversation. “You’ll support Jerry, the advertising sales manager. Mainly you’ll answer the phone. Here, let me show you how to work it.”

“This is a Lucent PBX with Audix voice mail, right? I used this kind at all of my old jobs, so I’m pretty familiar with them.”

Completely ignoring me, Pat continues to demonstrate every single one of the phone’s features, half of which she describes incorrectly. I don’t bother taking notes because I’ve used this system a thousand times. I have no need to transcribe an erroneous refresher course. “Hey, you should be writing this down.”

“Like I said, I’ve used this system extensively and—”

“WRITE IT DOWN,” Pat growls. “If you screw up the phone, Jerry’s gonna be on my ass.”

“No problem.” I’m slowly learning to choose my battles and figure this isn’t the hill I want to die on. I pull a portfolio out of my briefcase and begin to take notes.

“When the phone rings and Jerry isn’t there to answer, you pick it up and hold it to your mouth like this. You say, ‘Hello, Jerry Jenkins’ office.’”

I write:
When phone rings, place receiver next to your word hole and not your hoo-hoo or other bodily aperture, and say, “Shalom.”

“Then you say, ‘I’m sorry. Jerry isn’t available. Would you like to leave a message?’ If they do, you have to ask them who they are, what they want, and find out their phone number.”

I write:
Tell them Jerry went for a massage, and here’s my phone number.

“Then you have to make sure to give Jerry the message.”

I write:
Tell Jerry someone called about something important, and they sounded mad, so I hung up on them.