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 (36 page)

To: Cal Canter

From: [email protected]

Date: September 14, 2003

Subject: Re: Little Blaster

Hi Cal,

I saw your name as the return address and assumed that my brother was playing some sort of trick on me. But as I read, I realized that Todd doesn’t have the skills needed to fake your level of arrogance and that this email was indeed the real thing.

Aren’t I a lucky girl?

I remain aware of your existence as Todd still starts the occasional sentence with the phrase “Calvin says…” You’ll be pleased—although probably not surprised—to know that this phrase precedes his lectures on things I’m doing wrong in my life, so I hear your name
a lot.

Thank you for your sage guidance on my job search. Sadly, I can’t get a fast food job because I’m not bilingual, necessary in my West Si-ee-de neighborhood. We also own a pit bull, so I DO meet all the qualifications to begin rollin’ with the Latin Kings. However, I’m keeping my gang-joining options open for now as a gal needs to choose her homies carefully, you know.

I have to disagree with you on a couple of points on my potential writing career. As for financial gain, I currently make NO money, so any money earned would be considered a success. And I can’t see that anyone could find dirt or embarrassing stories about me that I wouldn’t first exploit myself, case in point, my
Big Lebowski
Night story on the web site. In it, I detail losing my shirt and vomiting on my neighbors.

Hey, doesn’t it seem like just yesterday I was shouting at you to “shut the fuck up” at Todd’s wedding?

By the way, have you completely morphed into Judge Smails from
Caddyshack
yet? You were well on your way the last time I saw you. Hope all is well at Bushwood.

Fecklessly yours,

Jen (Todd’s sister)

I’m outside pouring water on the newly laid sod in front of my building. As I finish dumping my eighty-sixth bucketful on the fledgling lawn to make sure the roots take hold, I realize I’m being watched. I look up to see two shadowy figures, although I can’t discern who they are because I’m temporarily blinded by the setting sun and the sweat pouring into my eyes. Then one of the figures barks, “HEY, JEN!” and I jump about four feet in the air, sending my bucket flying.

There’s only one person I know who speaks with the kind of volume that makes people mentally construct storm shutters and tape up windows. “Joel! Fletch says you’ve been away for National Guard training. Did you just get back? And, Irene, how are you? What are you guys doing here? We haven’t seen you guys for ages! Please come in!”

After hugs and a few more cheerful exclamations from all parties, I give them the tour. Fletch is equally delighted, and we gather on our deck. I’m so pleased to see them that I don’t realize I’m clad in cutoff sweatpants and a ratty T-shirt until I notice the odd looks I’m getting from the child millionaires next door.

Before Joel arrived and I tossed my bucket, I caught a glimpse of the millionaires hosting their first dinner party alfresco. Their table was covered with an expensive spray of lilies so fragrant that I could smell them from our deck ten feet away. On their immaculately set Bloomingdale’s for the Home outdoor dining suite, pricey red wine twinkled in their giant crystal goblets. Their purebred cocker spaniel sat patiently at their feet, confident in the knowledge that a delectable scrap of proscuitto had her name on it. And I’m pretty sure I noticed sorbet being served in frozen objets d’art between the pasta and grilled rainbow trout courses.

Their guests fit the scene perfectly, too. The women had glossy, swinging bobbed coiffures and Just the Right Amount of makeup, dressed like an Ann Taylor catalog brought to life, their small, tasteful gold-hoop earrings and blindingly large engagement rings flashed in the late-afternoon sun. The men were hale and hearty in their Brooks Brothers casual wear and Rockports. They tittered about their healthy portfolios while lame jazz lightly wafted through the air on the outdoor speakers. Small lanterns and little candles provided a warming glow while the sun set.

The scene is truly breathtaking.

Until we come outside to mess it all up.

Honestly, I try to keep Joel’s voice a decibel or two below ear-splitting, but to no avail. Joel cannot be contained. That’s why we went onto the deck in the first place. Had Joel been inside our house, the hippies downstairs would have blasted their
Sgt. Pepper
album over and over.
¹⁹⁴
The evening continues and Joel’s topics of conversation grow louder and more inappropriate.

“THE CALIBER OF STRIPPERS IN TIJUANA ARE…”

“YOU CAN FASHION ALMOST ANYTHING INTO A WEAPON. SPRAY STARCH CAN BE DEADLY WHEN YOU…”

“SINCE MOST FIREFIGHTS TAKE PLACE IN AN AREA OF LESS THAN FOUR HUNDRED YARDS, I FIND THE ASSAULT RIFLE…”

The glances from the other side of the fence are coming fast and furious now, and through narrowed eyes, they survey our soiree.
“Wait a minute. Do they have a PIT BULL? That spastic dog is gnawing on the big black wolf-looking mutt and they’re both demanding sips of beer! And what IS that girl thinking, wearing sweaty gardening clothes and a ponytail to entertain? Are they drinking beer? That isn’t IMPORTED? Oh, my God, they’re drinking directly from the bottle! Don’t those savages own any pilsner glasses, for Christ’s sake? How come the fat one is sitting on the AC unit? Why don’t they just BUY more chairs if they don’t have proper seating? And what is the loud psychopath shouting about now? Gah! How much longer until THOSE PEOPLE leave this neighborhood and we can have some peace?”

I guess it’s official now.
We’re
the white trash neighbors.

Why am I oddly delighted by this fact?

To: [email protected]

From: NYHS Publisher

Date: September 16, 2003

Subject: Rat Pack

Jen,

I ran across the
Do We Need a New Ratpack?
rant you posted on Craig’s List and I went crazy for it. Everyone here read it and they peed their pants. With your permission, I’d like to reprint it in the new magazine I’m starting. Please contact me at the address or number below.

Thanks,

Loren

To: [email protected]

From: Kate, DeFiore Literary Agency

Date: September 18, 2003

Subject: Craig’s List Postings

Hi, Jen,

I saw your
To Every Company
essay on Craig’s List and I followed the link to your website, which I then perused for an hour or so. You have a strong voice and a great way with words.

I think you have a story to tell, and, as a literary agent, I may be able to help.

If you’re interested, I’ve included my contact information.

All the best,

Kate

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Joe Thompson. May I speak with Jennifer Lancaster, please?”

Joe Thompson?

How do I know that name?

“This is Jen speaking.”

“Jen, hey, how are you?”

“Fine, thanks. How are you?” And who
are
you?

“Doing well, thanks for asking. Listen, Jen, we haven’t spoken in a while, but hung on to your résumé because I liked your moxie.” Oh, my God—this is the guy from THE MOTHER SHIP! I called him once a month for an
entire year
. I only stopped phoning him when he told me that
he’d
call
me
when he had something. I assumed that was his polite way of telling me to piss off.

“Jen, I have the perfect position for you in our municipal bonds publishing division. I want to get you in here as soon as possible for a round of interviews.” He lowers his voice in a conspiratorial tone. “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but your reputation precedes you and you’re my first choice. Provided your interviews go well and your references check out, this job is likely yours.”

The Mother Ship is finally CALLING ME HOME!!

“Yes, I’m really happy for you, but I thought you decided to try making a living as a writer,” Fletch says. “Given the interest you’ve garnered lately, I’m surprised you’d even consider this. What do you know about municipal bonds?”

“Well, nothing, actually, but the job wouldn’t be selling bonds—it would be selling a
publication
about bonds.” Which would be cool…right?

“Let me rephrase the question: What do you know about selling bond publications? Wouldn’t you have to deal with all the financial people you used to hate?”

“No, no, I hated the stupid PR girls. The financial people were OK.”

“Really? Is that why you’re always going out for drinks with Ben? And exchanging pithy e-mails with the Joshes? And having your nails done with
Lawrence
?”

My skin crawls just a bit. “I kind of forgot about them.”

“I’m all for you bringing home a paycheck, but if you have a job you hate, you won’t be happy. You’ll try to compensate by overindulging, and that’s ultimately how we got in trouble in the first place.”

I roll my eyes. “Do you think I’ve learned
nothing
in the past couple of years?”

“I’m just saying you should weigh your options.”

“I will, I will. Oh, can you give me a lift that day?” Fletch is already doing so well at his new job that we were able to buy a car. Granted, it’s a preowned Ford Taurus and our loan rate is one percentage point shy of usury, but it beats the hell out of the Ashland Avenue bus.

“What time?” Fletch pulls up his schedule on his PDA.

“Does twelve thirty work?”

“Can do.”

“Cool. I’m going to go do some research on the municipal bond market now. Maybe it’s more interesting than it sounds.” I give Fletch a kiss and go to the den.

There is NOTHING interesting about the municipal bond market.

I’m clad in one of my old power suits and I look fantastic.
¹⁹⁵
My shoes have been spit shined, courtesy of Fletch, and I’m still a lovely light brown from my summer bout with tanorexia.

“I’m going to grab the mail. I’ll meet you outside by the car,” Fletch calls up the stairs.

“OK, see you in a minute.” I slick a coat of Bloom’s Dolci gloss
¹⁹⁶
across my lips and I’m ready to go.

I lock up and try to ignore the sad doggie faces watching me from the window. I can’t even look at them. If I feel this guilty leaving them for a couple of hours, what’s it going to be like when I have to go to work every day and they’re all alone?

When I get to the car, I notice a package on my seat.

“What’s this?” I ask.

“It came for you in the mail.”

“Really?” I tear it open and a variety of presents spill into my lap. I examine all sorts of treats, such as pretty nail polishes, a mixed CD, and bags of my favorite candy. “This is lovely!” I dig through the box searching for a note.

Jen,

I wanted to send you a token of my appreciation. I know it seems weird to send you presents, especially seeing how we’ve never met, but your advice has been invaluable to me. It’s because of your input that I didn’t dump my boyfriend…or should I say my FIANCEE!

Although I wish you the best of luck with your interview, the selfish part of me hopes you’ll decide to keep writing instead. Whatever you choose, thanks for inspiring me on a daily basis!

Kelly in Canada

Fletch glances at my lap as he navigates the car out of the alley. “Who’s it from?”

Lost in thought, I finally reply, “A fan.”

The interviews go tremendously well, and as a company, the Mother Ship is everything I ever dreamed it would be. They make me a generous offer and I s
hould
be turning cartwheels. And yet, I’m just not sure. They gave me until Monday to make a decision, which is good because I have no idea what to do right now.

On the one hand, this job is almost everything I’ve ever wanted in an employment situation. The benefits are great, there’s a tremendous opportunity for growth, and the money is spectacular. On the other, what if I actually have the chance to start a career as a writer? The literary agency wants to me to sign with them. Although being under contract is no guarantee of success, it’s definitely a leg up. My mother asked why I couldn’t take the job
and
write, but that’s not how I operate. I can only do one thing at a time, and with what I need to learn about the bond market, I can’t see doing both.

Fletch has been no guidepost whatsoever. He keeps telling me to do what I think is best, and he’ll support whatever decision I make. What kind of bullshit is that?

I’m all stressed out and the fact that I just started Atkins isn’t helping. I bet I could make sense of everything if I could just think about it over a plate of jelly donuts. While I’m busy crafting a decision matrix on a spreadsheet, my phone rings. “Hello?”

“Jennifer, it’s your brother! What’s up, Peeg?”

“Todd, this is exactly why I almost never answer the phone when you call.”

“Hey, I need you to come down here this weekend.”

“Calling me Peeg is the best way to ensure I won’t help you with whatever it is you need.”

“Get over yourself, Peeg. We need you to babysit this weekend.”

Todd has never asked me to watch his children before. For some reason, I’d been painted with the “irresponsible” brush after that time I accidentally gave the kids a book of matches.
¹⁹⁷
“I’m your last resort, aren’t I?”

“Pretty much. Jean’s sisters are all busy and her parents will be out of town. Mom was going to sit this weekend, but the doctor says she can’t lift anything and she isn’t well enough yet to drive herself down here.”
¹⁹⁸

“Why doesn’t Dad drive her?”

“The play-offs are on and he doesn’t want to go anywhere.”

I made an exception to my children-hating rule for Todd’s kids. They’re actually kind of fun, plus if I spoil them rotten now, I can eventually use them against my brother.
¹⁹⁹
Still, they are a handful and because they’re human petri dishes, they always contaminate me. I generally spend the week after seeing them in bed surrounded by Kleenex, a vaporizer, and empty mugs sticky from hot lemonades. “Yeah, I don’t think it’s going to work. Sorry.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like you enough to help you.”

“It’s not for me, it’s for Jean. I’ve got to cover a game that night, but Jean’s going away for a sorority reunion. If you don’t come, she’ll miss it.”

Damm it, he had to go and throw the Jean card. She’s the best thing that ever happened to our family. If we were the Munsters, she’d be our Marilyn. Never once has Jean pretended to shoot other Stone Mountain tourists with her golf umbrella while singing “The Sound of Music,”
²⁰⁰
described in loving detail the corned beef she once had in Dubuque, Iowa, in 1984, while having no recollection of her child’s middle name,
²⁰¹
or walked out of the house without remembering to put on pants.
²⁰²
Wearily, I consent. “OK, fine. When should I be there?”

“Tomorrow night around five. Thanks, Peeg.”

“Bite me.”

“One more thing: The kids are afraid of bees, wasps, and hornets. See you tomorrow.”

Huh?

You know what? Driving down to Todd’s is actually a good idea. I’ll have five hours each way to figure out what to do about the job. Plus I’ll get to listen to all the cheesy music I like so much but am too embarrassed to play in front of other people.
²⁰³

I stop for gas and snacks, and in a heroic moment of self-control, I decide against the Hostess cupcakes. The Atkins diet has been working, and I rather like not having my pants hurt anymore. I go low carb and opt for a Diet Dr Pepper and some sunflower seeds. I snicker to myself because I bet Fletch just felt a chill go down his spine. I’ve been banned from eating them in the car since the Sunflower Seed-Stravaganza (and subsequent Car Vacuuming-Stravaganza) in 1996. What can I say? I have lousy aim.

When I get to Todd’s house, the children hurl themselves at me. Max, being the middle child, feels like a cannonball when he crashes into my stomach. With Cam, the eldest, it’s more like being hit with a side of beef or perhaps a small freight train.

My brother stands in the doorway laden with photography equipment and a laptop case. “Bye, kids. I’m going now.” He steps outside and then ducks his head back in. “Jen, I almost forgot. The kids have already had dinner, so they should be all set. Also, try not to let Max see you eating.”

“Why not?” I’m puzzled by such an odd request.

“If he sees you eat any food he doesn’t like, he’ll throw up.”

“Gross! But I’m hungry, so tell me what he does like.”

“Chicken fingers, candy, and surprisingly, clams.”

As soon as Todd leaves, Cam begins his eighteen-hour monolog about the benefits of owning Yu-Gi-Oh trading cards, and I have a strange premonition of him someday trying to sell me a time-share. Little Sarah reminds me that she is pretty.

I set the kids in front of the DVD player while I clean up their dinner dishes. I’m determined to have Todd and Jean return to a sparkling house because I want it to look like I can handle things (and to convince them they would NOT have been better letting the neighbor’s rottweiler watch the kids). I start to Girl Scout up the joint, leaving it in even better condition than I’d found it.

“Hey, Jen, can I have a glass of water?”

“Me, too.”

“No, I don’t like that glass. Can I have another?”

“Why did you put ice in here? Ice makes my tongue ouchy.”

“Can I have a Mountain Dew instead?”

“I pretty!”

“Where’s my straw?”

“Max spilled his again.”

“TELL CAM NOT TO TOUCH ME.”

“I berry pretty!”

“Can we have some popcorn?”

“No, we like the kind with butter.”

“This doesn’t taste right. Can you put some sugar in it?”

“WHEN IS MOM COMING HOME?”

“I like ’nakes!”

“Jen, can I change my shirt?”

“Hey, the DVD is skipping!”

“Can we watch
Like Mike
again?”

“I have to use the potty.”

“I have to use the potty, too.”

“I make potty in my pants!”

Todd and Jean have an unusual home. It’s built into a hill, and the architecture is such that there are five different levels of living areas. So the fifteen minutes it should have taken me to clean up took more like two hours, what with the constant trips up and down two flights of stairs.

After the first movie ends and all the kids’ demands had been met, my old babysitting training kicks in. I can’t allow anything to be messy. I decide to be helpful and clean the boys’ bathroom. Although they are housebroken, Cam and Max need a bit of work on their aim. I liken it to a bunch of monkeys trying to operate a firehose.

The bathroom takes longer than expected, and since it’s three levels away from where the children are, I can’t hear the orgy of destruction. Cam, the brains of the operation, found a large bag of candy hidden in the kitchen. Being a generous soul, he shared his findings with his siblings, and they all stuffed themselves as fast as their little hands could hurl the empty wrappers. After accidentally stepping on a kernel, Max decided to have a popcorn-smashing party with Sarah on the new carpet, and what better way to inspect one’s Yu-Gi-Oh cards than to stick them all to the walls with chewed pieces of gum?