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 (10 page)

“Jen, what can I say? It was a business decision, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry when you’re not. Your patent lack of sincerity makes me sick,” I snarl. “But I don’t want to leave here without an answer. Please explain where things went sideways for me. Was it because my child care issues kept me from putting in a full forty hours? Or is it that I squandered company resources doing my MBA homework? Or that I had wholly inappropriate conversations about the dissolution of my marriage to my underlings? Oh, no, wait, that was YOU. So, frankly, I don’t have a fucking clue why I no longer have a job with Corp. Com. and you still do.” I am livid.

Kathleen tries to stare me down, but I see the slight quiver in her chin. With a trembling hand and wavering voice, she gives me a piece of paper. “Now if you’ll just sign this form saying you’ll make no further claims against the company, I can release your severance check to you.”

I read the document. In addition to holding the company harmless, I have to pledge never to speak ill of the organization or else they can take back my check. Fine, whatever. I sign the document because, really? I have no other choice. I push the form back with so much force a cold cup of coffee spills onto one of Kathleen’s textbooks. She ignores it and hands me a thin envelope.

I tear it open and examine the enclosed check.

It’s made out for one week’s salary.

ONE WEEK’S SALARY?

A full year of pushing myself to the limit is worth one week’s pay? I missed my niece’s birth for one week’s pay? I gave up my best friend’s wedding for one week’s pay? I skipped every major holiday with my family last year for one week’s pay? I have to cough up $300 a month to cover up all the gray hair I’ve gotten from job stress for one week’s pay??
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I imagine I’ll be violating the “not speak ill” clause very soon.

“This is bullshit and we both know it,” I state in a matter-of-fact voice. “And at some point, Corp. Com. will discover exactly how worthless you are.”

Her eyes damp, Kathleen barks, “We’re done here. I’ll give you a few minutes to clear out your desk, and then I have to escort you off the premises.”

Silently, I stalk out of her office and return to my cubicle, where I promptly purge every single document I ever wrote from my computer. I created them on my time, and I’ll be damned if someone else is going to benefit from
my
intellectual property. Zing! There go all my spreadsheets. Zap! See ya in hell, cross-referenced customer database! Bing! Good-bye, case studies! Poof! Au revoir, award-winning marketing material! And just for good measure, I wipe out my entire hard drive with a trick Fletch taught me. They’re going to need computer forensics to retrieve any of my information. For a minute, I consider bringing down the entire network, but I restrain myself.
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I toss my cell phone, PDA, and office keys on the desk, and take a last look around. Grabbing my purse, I decide to abandon all my desk tchotchkes. It’s not like I care about some stupid Dr. Evil action figure, and I refuse to I be one of those assholes you see all over the streets these days, boo-hooing and carrying a box full of shoes, plants, and kids’ pictures.

Right before I’m escorted out, Courtney returns from her morning appointment. She quickly figures out what’s happening and a single fat tear rolls down her cheek, cutting a path through her foundation. “How am I going to do my job without you?” she asks.

“You’ll have to talk to Kathleen about that,” I say. “Call me later.”

In the cab on the way home I remind myself things aren’t so bad. I’m smart, healthy, and talented, right? I mean, look at all I accomplished in a year with virtually
no
local management support. I kicked ass! I won the national market leadership award! Any company would be lucky to have someone as driven as me. I should be able to land another job in a minute.

You know what? Maybe I’ll get an even
better
position, one where I don’t have to work with Retard-y Artys and soulless sales managers and stupid PR hacks. I’ll have a nice salary and my own private office with a door and girls to get my coffee again. Everything is going to be just fine.

As the cab pulls up to my building, it hits me that I won’t be able to buy my couch anytime soon.

And then I start to cry.

Shaken, Not Stirred

From the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

February 1, 2002

Dear Rush Limbaugh,

Not only have I been a devoted listener for ten years but your program inspired me to major in Political Science. I loved using your arguments against my Marxist professors! (Really, anyone who doesn’t like Capitalism has simply never been shoe shopping at Nordstrom.) The point is I rarely disagree with you. However, I heard you clash with the President’s intention to extend unemployment benefits.

How come? Do you think every unemployed person is a dirty hippie, too busy supporting Chairman Mao to seek gainful employment? Because it’s totally not true.

My company laid me off at the end of September, blaming the attack on America. (Which is BS, by the way. A lot of companies used 9/11 as a convenient excuse to lay off good people without looking like ogres.) Since I’ve been “on the dole,” I’ve applied for hundreds of jobs, hit dozens of networking events, registered on every single job-search portal, and hounded corporate headhunters to the point of criminal harassment. It’s not like I’m sitting around the house smokin’ fatties, waiting for the guv’mint to cut me my check.

I’m concerned my benefits will run out before I find work and I’ll be forced to do something awful like waitressing. It’s difficult for me to rationalize going from advising VPs at Fortune 500 companies to inquiring about their choice of salad dressing, you know? Because of this I believe those extra 13 weeks could really make the difference for my future.

So, please, enlighten me on why you feel this is a bad idea. I’m interested to hear your thoughts.

Many thanks,

Jen Lancaster

P.S. You look fabulous since you lost weight. Hey, why don’t you talk about diet tips more often on the show? I bet it would bring in that crucial 18 to 45 female demographic.

I need some time to feel sorry for myself. Flopping down on my four-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton, tulip-print bedding, I kick off my Chanel slingbacks and commence moping. While staring at the rough planks of my beamed ceiling, I relive the past year. I try to figure out how I might have prevented this layoff. Could I have worked harder? Did I
really
give the company my all? My eyes trace the intricate brickwork on the wall while I wonder if I could have been more innovative. My ideas were totally fresh and original, right? I glance down at the gleaming baseboards and continue to brood. Did I take advantage of every opportunity? And didn’t I always put forth my very best efforts? I scrutinize the pristine slats on the blond wood venetian blinds while I ruminate on my interpersonal interaction. Could I have built stronger relationships with my client base? Or with my team of account executives? Or with Kathleen? Was my attitude ever an issue? Looking deep within my soul in the silence of my cavernous apartment, I come to a realization…

…I was absolutely faultless. And my termination? Is their loss.

Having neatly absolved myself from any responsibility, I decide to get to work. Fortunately I transferred my customer database from my PDA to my computer a while back, so I’ve got a huge list of people I can call about job openings. Feeling loads better, I settle into my home office to start dialing.

Unbelievable. Almost every acquaintance who could hire me has met a similar fate. The few who are still employed are waiting for the ax to fall. Apparently it’s been a brutal couple of weeks for everyone in my industry. I’m at a loss as to what to do next. I’ve already posted on all the employment boards, applied for every single open job for which I’m qualified, and registered with scads of recruiters. In addition, the house is spotless, dinner’s prepared for the next three days, I’ve talked to friends and family, each of my cats has received copious amounts of catnip and chin scratchings, and let’s just say any ice cream in the house is but a memory.

I’m left with no other alternative.

It’s time to redecorate.

I’m outside watering the plants when I hear the scream.

Fletch joined the Army before college, and the experience instilled in him an icy calm and the ability to maintain a cool head in a crisis. Few things rattle him, so when I hear him shriek, it means he’s lost a limb. I dash down the stairs from the deck, half expecting to trip over detached bits of my beloved.

“Honey, what happened? Are you OK?” I call.

I find Fletch standing in the bathroom, mouth agape, staring at the naked wall. Uh-oh. I forgot to tell him about the wallpaper. Or, more specifically, that I removed it.

You know I live in the world’s coolest pad, right? Unfortunately this doesn’t extend to the bathroom. Fletch and I often debate what it reminds us of—I think it looks like a Scranton, Pennsylvania, Howard Johnson’s, circa 1982, while Fletch likens it to a drug lord’s lair from the
Miami Vice
set.

The bones of the bathroom are fine—white tile floors, attractive brushed chrome fixtures, clean marble counters, etc…. and then there’s the wallpaper, obviously designed by a borderline psychotic. The only way to replicate it would be to take a roll of shiny, mirrored cream paper and have a chicken step in black paint and scale the wall like Batman. Next, invite a couple of schoolchildren over and encourage them to finger paint fuchsia-and-teal check marks. Finally, smear it all together with some dove gray Nike swooshes…and voilà! Welcome to my nightmare.

“I’m giving the bathroom a face-lift,” I tell Fletch.

“I can see that,” he replies. “What brought you to this decision?”

“Well, I was kind of bored. I decided we needed a change around here, but since you refuse to float me $6500 for the couch, I can’t do a
thing
with the living room.”

“Give the couch a rest already.”

“It’s OK. I’m totally over it. Anyway, you know how much I despised the wallpaper. We both hated it. I mean, what kind of hostess suggests her guests visit the bathroom in the bar across the street rather than use the one down the hall?”

“And?”

“And I realized I couldn’t stand to look at that awful paper for one more minute. From where I stood in the shower, I saw a loose piece behind the toilet so I gave it a wee tug.”

“Continue.”

“And, um, nothing really happened. I pulled a little harder. Then I yanked, and finally a huge section came off in my hands. It was incredibly liberating! I got out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and started ripping. A half an hour later, the walls were totally bare.”

“Now what?”

“I’m going to sand down the walls and paint them.”

He snorts. “
You’re
going to paint?”

“Of course! I’m, like, practically an expert. Didn’t I tell you in my Alpha Delta Pi days our pledge project was to refurbish the rec room, and I was in charge of painting?”

Gently he reminds me, “Jen, they kicked you out of that sorority.”

“Not because of the paint job. I rocked the paint job. They booted me because of the Sigma Nu wine-and-cheese party.”

“Do I know this story?”

“Remember I hated my evil pledge master, Stacey?”

“Why, again?”

“She always gave me the dirtiest chores, and I was hazed far worse than anyone else. She talked my pledge sisters out of electing me pledge class president when I SO had it in the bag. Then she assigned me more phone duty than anyone else even though I never mastered the switchboard. When I was supposed to be the chapter’s nominee for Grand Prix queen, Stacey decided I couldn’t do it because my GPA wasn’t high enough, even though I had the most pageant experience and honestly could have won. She constantly singled me out.”
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“Jen, if I’ve learned anything about you, it’s these things are never one-sided. What did you do to contribute to the situation?” he asks.

“Well…I started dating her roommate’s ex-boyfriend. Since they hadn’t gone out in over a year, I wasn’t violating any part of sisterhood code, especially since I met him before I pledged. Stacey and her roommate, Lisa, were just spiteful old hags. Anyway, Stacey always wore the same outfit to our functions—ugly checked cropped pants and a weird sleeveless red cowl-neck sweater that clashed audibly with her frizzy orange hair and freckles. I mean it, she wore it to every single party, and it didn’t
even
look good on her.
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On wine-and-cheese night, I had too much wine and not enough cheese and suddenly writing a check to Stacey for a new set of party clothes seemed like a capital idea.”

“Which broke the camel’s back.”

“Yep. The one thing that really got me is the girls who kicked me out were the same ones laughing so hard at the check. What a bunch of two-faced C-U-Next-Tuesdays. Anyway, I had the last laugh when I pledged Pi Phi, especially because the Alpha Delts eventually lost their charter and were thrown off campus. HA! Served ’em right for not having a sense of humor. Anyway, what was my point?”

“You had a point?”

“Of course! My point is I’m a really good painter. As soon as you tell me where your belt sander is, I can start smoothing down the walls.” Fletch has hidden all his tools from me ever since I broke his Dremel wheel a few years ago. But how could I resist using something that looked like a turbocharged pumice stone on my callused heels?

“I’ll get it from storage after dinner,” he says.

“Kool and the Gang. Hey, now that you’re home, I’m going to take your car to Home Depot to gather paint samples. How do you feel about dark blue?”

“Anything would be better than what he had.”

“Agreed. All righty, see you later!” I head toward the door.

“Hey, Jen, wait a sec. I just thought of something…. You
did
clear all of this with our landlord first, right?”

Oh, shit.

Apparently the gentleman in the paint department really
was
trying to help me and not just smell my hair. Perhaps if I’d listened to him and bought the deep-base primer, I wouldn’t be on my twenty-seventh layer of Starry, Starry Night blue paint. Every day I put another coat on these godforsaken walls, and I can still see the light bits of the drywall peeking through. Do you have any idea the havoc this has wrought on my manicure? Fortunately yesterday’s interview was a waste of time, or I’d really have been embarrassed by the giant splotch on my arm when we shook hands.

Everything started out fine—we laughed about the paint smudge, the office was pleasant, my suit was divine,
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and the product seemed OK. Although I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of selling phone book advertising, our landlord has a similar job, and she owns expensive real estate all over the city, so it must be lucrative.

Prior to meeting, we had a lovely phone interview, so I felt at ease as we spoke. Bob, the recruiter, flipped through a laminated chart while thoroughly explaining the position’s responsibilities. “If you don’t have any more questions about the sales process, I’d like to discuss salary,” Bob said.

“Sounds good,” I said, smiling. I wowed him, no doubt. This job was mine. Come on…big money, big money, no whammies!

“The base salary is $40,000,” he said as my smile faded. “But you only receive that amount while you’re in the two-week training process.”

“And then it goes up,” I stated confidently.

“Um, actually, no. The base is still $40,000, but you only get a portion of it after you complete the training course.”

“What portion?”

He hesitated before answering, “$16,000.”

“So the base is really $16,000.”

“No, no, the base is considered $40,000 because that’s the figure you’d report on a salary history.”

“But you receive $16,000 per year once you’re done with training?” I wasn’t trying to be argumentative. I honestly didn’t understand because surely in America you can’t pay an experienced professional with a college degree $16,000. I figured I was missing something.

“Correct.”

“Then why wouldn’t you say the base is $16,000 but you get extra money during training?”

Bob sat quietly for a moment. I seem to have confused us both. “Listen, this is how we break out salaries around here. No one actually receives their full base salary. It’s offset by commission.”

“If the number you say the base salary is has no relevance to what employees put in their wallets, why not make them feel really important and tell them their base is $100,000?” I suggested. I noticed Bob’s furrowed brow and white lips, so I decided to change the subject. “Um, maybe we should talk about commission.”

“Yes, commission,” Bob said, visibly relieved to have escaped our logical loop. “The thing about commission is you won’t get any until you complete the probationary period.”

“Which is how long?”

“Six months. But after six months, your income potential is practically unlimited.”

I bit down on my tongue so hard I tasted blood. Yes, the initial salary is pathetic, I thought, but there must be more to the story because my landlord is loaded. They’ve got to include really fantastic benefits like an unlimited entertainment budget. “How do you handle the cost of taking out clients?”

“We give our account executives a company credit card for entertainment purposes after they complete the six months, but before then, we do not reimburse.”

“I see.” I was trying really hard to maintain my cool. “All right, so I understand the team meets in the office at eight a.m. and five p.m. daily. Do you provide a parking pass, or do people just turn in receipts?”

“You don’t get reimbursed for expenses until you’re off probation.”

“Which means I’d pay $30 in parking fees on a daily basis.” I quickly crunched the numbers in my head. “You realize that’s almost $4000 out of pocket, don’t you?” Funny how I can never do math unless it directly impacts my pocketbook.
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