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 (9 page)

I’ve been working the phone like a telemarketer for the past few weeks trying to miracle up some interest. This is a lot tougher than last time I looked for a job. When I posted my résumé in June of 2000, I got ten calls a day. Now it’s like I have the plague.

However, I’ve managed to score an interview next Tuesday at a big investor relations firm called Birchton & Co. Birchton is one of Courtney’s clients and she’s been talking me up to them. Yay! Although she doesn’t want me to leave the company, she knows I have an expensive apartment to support. Besides, if I get in there, Courtney will count on me to throw a lot of business her way. And since it’s a consulting job, the base salary is really high, so I predict I’ll be parked on my new couch in no time flat.

Why was I so worried? Everything’s going to be fine.

The people at Birchton & Co. will hire me on the spot when they meet me because my interview outfit is just WAY TOO CUTE. After much deliberation, I decide to wear my stunning black-on-black Jones New York suit jacket with the matching tank dress underneath. I plan to wrap my citrus green leopard-print scarf around my neck for that added touch of pizzazz. And my pièce de résistance, new Kate Spade kicks! They’re trimmed with a tiny bit of citrus piping and the whole look says, “Competent, Professional, and Worthy of a Six-Figure Salary.”

And, yes, I remembered to shave under my arms this time. Last time I wore this outfit, it was a DISASTER. First of all, it was un-seasonably hot. Retard-y Arty wrote down the wrong address and didn’t realize it until we were already late and we had to RUN to the Prudential building. Between the dress, coat, each item’s silk lining, panty hose, my Nancy Ganz strangulation-city slip,
⁴⁷
and the client’s faulty air conditioner, I baked like a meat loaf. Since I skipped the shave, I couldn’t even take the jacket off. I channeled the Albert Brooks scene in
Broadcast News
with perspiration pouring rivers off my head and onto the conference table. I tried to sop it up with my notebook, but no dice. It was humiliating and I’ve yet to forgive Arthur.

My interview isn’t until noon, but I’m so excited I was awake at five thirty this morning. I had coffee on my roof deck and watched the sun rise over the city. As I surveyed the buildings from north to south, I thought about how much I love my skyline: the Hancock Center, the AT&T building, the Merchandise Mart, Aon corporate headquarters, 311 South Wacker, and the city’s crown jewel, the Sears Tower. I must know someone on every floor of the Sears Tower. Every time I’m there, I bump into friends, clients, old classmates, etc. It’s like Chicago’s town square.

Today has been particularly bewitching. We had one of those glorious Indian summer dawns you never forget. Warm but not humid and the light was beautifully muted. Fat bees buzzed around my wave petunias, and the smell of rosemary and basil from my herb garden was intoxicating. I sipped and gazed and it was totally Zen.

I decide to brush up on financial news before my interview, so I head to my home office and switch on CNBC’s
Squawk Box
. I love
Squawk Box
! Every morning I learn something useful from their colorful array of analysts. There’s Bald Guy, Handlebar-Mustache Guy, Faboo Power Suit Gal, and Silly Accent Guy, plus a bunch of other funny, smart people who make the world of high finance interesting and accessible.

My goal someday is to be the foremost expert in my field and have big-time cutie David Faber interview me. But since I’m cool and totally a show insider from watching religiously, I’ll call him by his nickname, the Brain. (Hey, maybe
I
could become one of their regular industry analysts and they’d come up with a clever moniker for me! The Wall Street Diva, perhaps?)

From the CNBC studio, it appears to be a glorious morning in New York, too. Mark Haines, the show’s straight man, delivers his broadcast flawlessly, his soothing tones comforting me while I read my e-mail. Retard-y Arty has an asinine question about product features, and instead of looking them up on the shared drive, where I keep them for just such an occasion, he wants ME to find the information. Yeah, pal. I’ll get right on it. What else? A couple of the Texan AEs want me to join them for lunch meetings next week. Let’s see…YES to lunch at NoMi, and an adamant I DON’T THINK SO to lunch at Chili’s. Ick…who takes a client to
Chili’s
? Ryan’s e-mail wishes me big, screaming bunches of luck today—oh, isn’t he sweet? One of the stupid PR girls needs—

Wait a minute. What just happened?

It’s been a week and I’ve barely eaten or slept. All I can do is watch the horrifying images again and again on my television. Even when I close my eyes, I see buildings crumbling and streets filled with debris. I’m devastated. I can’t stop thinking about the victims. How many other girls put on their new shoes that morning, excited to go to work in the World Trade Center on such a beautiful fall day? How many moms and dads placed hand-packed lunches they would never eat in Pentagon refrigerators? How many of my favorite
Squawk Box
analysts didn’t make it out of their tower offices in time? How many children boarded planes bound for Disneyland, not knowing they’d never see Mickey’s parade?

Like most Americans, I’m back at work,
⁴⁸
but I’m a total zombie. I can’t concentrate. Today’s my first day in the office, and each time I hear a noise, I’m sure it’s a plane headed for my window. I took a Xanax and I’m still shaking like a Chihuahua.

I am NOT here by choice. Kathleen’s upset with our recent level of activity, so she called everyone in for a
phone blitz.
Yes, because NOTHING SIGNIFICANT happened last week on 9/11, and our meeting numbers fell because we were all goofing off. I am beyond outraged. People aren’t even buried yet, and we’re supposed to smile and dial, begging for business while pretending everything is just super! And maybe this initiative would have been more effective a month ago when we were busy
doing her homework
?

That woman is the devil.

It’s been two weeks and life feels a tad more normal. Planes are flying again, prime-time television started broadcasting its fall season, and this morning I kind of yelled at a homeless guy for touching my skirt. People are beginning to bitch about how long it takes to get through the building’s increased security. However, I didn’t complain when armed guards spent five minutes examining the under-side of my SUV for bombs. Do whatever it takes, guys. I finally went on a sales call, and it was actually fine. Of course, we spent the first fifteen minutes discussing how trite we felt talking about business, so that made it easier.
⁴⁹

I’m at my desk going over ’02 business projections when my phone rings. I jump at the sound because my nerves are still on edge. The number on caller ID is unidentifiable. Ugh, these are never happy calls. They’re either angry clients or clueless technicians, and I don’t care to deal with either right now. I hesitate before retrieving the handset.

“Jen Lancaster speaking.”

“Jen, how are you?” a voice lightly tinged with a Southern accent asks.

“I’m doing well, thanks.” The voice is familiar but I can’t place it.

“Listen, Jen, it’s John O’Donnell, and I need to talk to you about something important.”

Hmm…John O’Donnell is the vice president of the whole Southern sales region. Being part of the Midwest, I’m in no way under his chain of command, so I have no clue why he’s calling me and sounding so cagey.

“Sure, what’s up?” I ask cautiously.

“Jen, we had to make a very difficult decision today. There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to tell you flat out: We’ve eliminated Laurel’s position.”

You dirty rat fucks!! Laurel rocked, and you all know it!
It’s all I can do not to tell him off. But somehow, I manage to stay professional. Through gritted teeth, I say, “I’m really sorry to hear that. Laurel was an integral part of our group and I’ll miss her. But I appreciate your telling me this yourself.”
No, really, why are you telling me this? Does this mean I’m fired, too, you fat bastard?

“You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you this.”
Bingo.
“Well, we can’t leave the South without a product manager, so we’re promoting you. As of today, you’re in charge of the South and the Midwest. You’ve proved yourself to be a valuable asset to this organization, and we want to do whatever it takes to keep you.”

“Well, John, it’s gratifying to have my work recognized. Also, I spoke with Ryan yesterday, and I hear he’s volunteered to take on some AE’s duties where needed. If you need me to do this in Chicago, please let me know. I’ll do my part to make sure we stay competitive and successful.”

“Jen, I do believe you’re the future of this company.”

Just as I’m about to say thanks, I sneeze loudly into the phone. “Ahhchoo!”

“You’re welcome. Let’s touch base next week to discuss your travel schedule. Bye, Jen,” he says and hangs up.

“God bless me,” I reply, replacing the phone in its cradle.

And even though the speculation makes me feel like a terrible, awful, shallow person at a time like this, I wonder if I’ll get a raise.

Because I kind of want that couch again.

I took my first sick day ever at Corp. Com. yesterday. After I got off the phone with John, I felt congested and achy and decided I needed a day for myself. I’m not superimmune or anything, and I get sick all the time. But I’ve never had the opportunity to call in and not actually still work.
⁵⁰

I rested in the morning and went to see the new John Cusack movie in the afternoon. I mixed Nestle Crunch minis with popcorn and enjoyed my salty-sweet downtime thoroughly until I saw a shot of the New York skyline. They must have reedited the movie before release last week because the towers were gone. So much for the escapist nature of movies.

I tried to get back into Birchton & Co. for another interview just in case, but they’re mad at me for canceling on 9/11. Gosh,
I’m sorry.
How rude of me to be more concerned with the potential Armageddon than talking about the best cover art for your clients’ annual reports. Oh, well. They’re probably jerks, and I’m better off not working there. Besides, from what John said on Monday, my job is totally safe.

It’s seven a.m., and as usual, I’m the only one here. After flicking on the lights, I sort through the pile of yesterday’s accumulated mail on my chair. I work uninterrupted for the next hour and a half before the next employee arrives. Kathleen flounces in around nine thirty—way to set the example, BOSS. Her face darkens when she sees me and she doesn’t return my greeting.
Hey, thanks for asking. I
am
feeling much better this morning!

I’m knee-deep in a cost-benefit analysis spreadsheet when Kathleen approaches. “Jen, I need to talk to you.”

“Sure, just a sec. I’ve got all this data I’m crunching, so if you don’t mind, I’ll finish off this column and—”

“That wasn’t a request.”

Bitch. Someone’s off her meds again.

I follow her to her office and watch as she closes the door behind us. I haven’t been able to see in here since she installed blinds. She said it was so she could use her breast pump during the day, but I suspect napping. What a mess! There are stacks and stacks of paper piled two feet high around empty filing cabinets, their drawers thrown open. Her desk is littered with textbooks, covered with discarded Starbucks cups, and smeared with nasty coffee rings. And is that a dirty
ashtray
I spy? For God’s sake, she’s still breast-feeding. When her kid can’t do math because she smoked, she’d better not come crying to me.

Without blinking an eye, Kathleen says, “We’re letting you go.”

“Excuse me?” This is a joke or a prank of some sort. I surreptitiously glance around for a camera.

“We’ve eliminated your position.”

“You’re kidding, right? I spoke with O’Donnell two days ago, and he told me I was promoted. He said I was the future of this company.”

“We’ve had a change of plans.”

“What do you mean ‘a change of plans’? How do I go from getting promoted to fired in forty-eight hours?!?” I am astounded. She’s actually serious.

“You aren’t fired. You’re laid off.”

“Thank you. That’s a
really
comforting distinction.”

“There’s no reason to be snotty, especially since we’re being so generous with your severance package. Now, if you’ll just look here—”

“Whoa, wait a minute. Don’t talk to me about my
package
. I want to hear the thought process behind this decision. And I think I have every reason to be snotty, as you so succinctly put it. I work at least sixty hours a week for you with no overtime, and I spend half my weekends in this office. I’m the first one here in the morning and the last to leave.”

“Jen, you don’t understand the bigger—”

“Excuse me. I’m not finished. Yesterday was my first sick day in the year I’ve been employed here. Sales in my lines are up one hundred sixty percent and I won the national market leadership award. I created our
entire
marketing platform. My business plan was sent out as required reading to every single sales manager in the company. In light of my accomplishments, I would really appreciate knowing exactly what went awry.”

She starts, “Well, since 9/11, we don’t really know what’s going to happen and—”

I interrupt. “Do NOT blame this decision on terrorists, OK? If anything, the attack will INCREASE demand for my Web-based products because people will travel less. I’m sorry, but that line of reasoning simply does not compute. I demand you level with me. I’m owed that much.”

“It was a business decision.” She shrugs and fumbles a cigarette out of one of her piles.

“Do you know how many friends I’ve lost since I started working here because I didn’t have time for them? Do you understand what I’ve given up in my personal life in order to come this far? I’ve gone above and beyond the line of duty in this job every single day, so I think I’m entitled to more than
‘It was a business decision.
’”