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 (2 page)

The Village Idiot

BAR AND GRILLE

5/25/95

Jen,

Thanks for volunteering to be in charge when I took Chris to the emergency room. His burn is healing well, and he will be back in the kitchen on Tuesday. You did an excellent job running things with a couple of small exceptions.

First, Brian will
NOT
be required to provide you with a detailed essay on the virtues of a properly cooked steak.

Second, I know you think the hostess wasn’t seating people in an orderly manner, but I DID NOT give you the authority to fire her. She will also be back on Tuesday and expects an apology.

In the future, leave personnel decisions to me.

Thanks,

B---

From the desk of Miss Jennifer A. Lancaster

March 1, 1999

Dear Human Resources,

It is with regret that I’m tendering my resignation as a contract negotiator for Great Plaines HMO, effective two weeks from the date of this letter.

I appreciate the learning experience and I wish your organization tremendous success in the future.

Best,

Jennifer A. Lancaster

P.S. Perhaps the
next
time an angry physician locks a contract negotiator in a storage room as a bargaining ploy, you’ll actually admonish the doctor in question. What
you
consider “a blip in the negotiation process with a crucial member of our provider network,”
I
consider felony kidnapping.

P.P.S. I lied. It is with NO regret that I tender my resignation. I’m off to the dot-com sector to get rich. And the next time I’m locked in a closet? I’m pressing charges.

PART ONE

Icarus

Flying Too Close to the Sun

C
amille said you stole a bag from a homeless guy.”

“Well, I guess that depends on your definition of ‘steal.’ I didn’t
swipe
the briefcase, but I didn’t pay for it either,” I reply to my rapt audience with a shrug. They gape at me with open mouths. Apparently this is not a satisfactory explanation.

“OK, I’ll tell you the story, but I’m going to need a little lubrication first.” I whistle for the waitress’ attention and when she looks my way, I shake my highball glass and flash my freshly veneered multiple-thousand-dollar smile. She approaches with trepidation.

“You, bring me one of these every twenty minutes until we dock or I fall overboard,” I instruct her while swirling the ice in my jewel-colored cocktail.

Hearing this, my cohorts break into the kind of congratulatory laughter exclusive to drunken salespeople. The waitress emits a fake chuckle, too, although I sense she’s almost had it with me. What
ever
. Have I NOT stuffed her apron full of twenties all afternoon? How about a little gratitude? When I was a waitress, I would have KILLED to work on a boat like this. Instead, I slaved away in a shitty campus bar serving college athletes who considered a good tip a quarter and a grope worthy of a sexual harassment suit.
¹
And
I
was thankful for the opportunity. This girl is lucky to have caught me at the beginning of a story, or I would totally give her the news…even if it meant my next cocktail came with a spit chaser.

“So, all my assistants are in some meeting and I’m forced to pick up my
own
lunch, if you can imagine. I’m walking along Wacker Drive with my wasabi peas and cup of corn chowder—”

“What are wasabi peas?” interrupts some philistine from the Tucson office.
²

“For those of you who live under a rock and have never heard of wasabi peas”—I shoot the Tucson rep a withering glance before continuing—“they are dried green peas coated with a hardened horseradish paste, and they’re totally low fat and fabulous. AS I WAS SAYING, I’m cruising down Wacker and I pass this filthy street Arab—”

“Jen, please!” Camille interjects. “The politically correct term is
member of the transient community
.”

“Camille, go hug a dolphin or something, OK?” I snap. God, I’m so sick of Camille’s PC bullshit. What a pathetic little do-gooder she is. She’s always picking my Diet Dr Pepper cans out of the trash to recycle. And she rides her bike to our office when she has a perfectly good car and a parking pass. Once she tried to turn me on to her meat-free lifestyle and I told her to let me know when tofu started to taste like prime rib, because until then, I was
all
about the food chain.
³

“ANYWAY, normally when I see the, um,
residentially challenged
”—I cock a perfectly arched eyebrow at Camille, daring her to chime in again—“I hold my breath so I don’t have to smell them. Also, I traipse past quick as possible, because, really, their begging embarrasses us both. And I was about to do that again when I noticed that this guy was holding a gorgeous new briefcase. Correction, a gorgeous new COACH briefcase.”

Pausing for effect, I squeeze a lime wedge into my fresh drink before continuing.

“I thought to myself, if he doesn’t have a home, chances are he doesn’t have an office, so why does he need a briefcase, especially one that perfectly matches my Coach Station bag? Besides, I was sure it was hot. And I knew if I
my
bag were stolen and I had no chance of getting it back, I’d want its new owner to cherish it, NOT use it as a pillow. I needed to rescue that buttery leather piece of magnificence and give it a loving home.”

I take a delicate sip, noticing that everyone on the boat is listening to me. God, I am
so
meant to be in front of an audience.

“I marched up to the guy and honestly? I could actually see the stink coming off him. He radiated like a tar road on a hot day. And, oh sweet Jesus, he was completely whacked out of his mind on malt liquor and meth! So I was easily able to convince him that my lunch was an even trade for his briefcase. And we all lived happily ever after, the end. See? It’s really not the big deal that Camille says it was.”

“You forgot one significant detail,” Camille admonishes with a shake of her head.

Sighing, I turn to her. “Are you my Greek chorus or something?” Rolling my eyes heavenward, I come clean. “OK, maybe the trade wasn’t quite so fair. Because I…uh…uh…I told him the wasabi peas were crack rocks.”
⁴

Everyone on the boat—except Camille and the waitress—explodes into laughter. While they compose themselves, I sip my Stoli Cape Cod and survey the scene. After a frigid Midwestern winter, a day in the Florida sun is pure bliss. Golden rays dapple the Atlantic and a light wind gently buffers our boat. Although the charter seems a bit plush for a day of deep-sea fishing, I’m not complaining. Besides, with all the business I brought in this quarter, I deserve this luxury.

Twenty-five people from various regional branches of Corporate Communications Conglomerate (Corp. Com.) are on this trip…and I can’t be bothered with most of them. Just look at how some chose to present themselves today. Technically, this is a
company function
. I don’t care if we are fishing; tatty jean shorts, stained and wrinkled logo Ts, and—excuse me while I throw up in my mouth a bit—belly-baring shirts are wholly inappropriate.
⁵
Fashion Police, report to the scene of the crime, please.

Let’s look at me now—I’m casual but fabulous. My linen Ralph Lauren Capri pants are pressed to perfection, and my simple Egyptian cotton V-neck is from Saks. My resplendent gold-and-silver twisted cable David Yurman bracelets are stacked up each of my arms, and their tourmaline, citrine, and amethyst stones glint in the sunlight, thus blinding those not clever enough to wear Oliver Peoples sunglasses. You know, being on the water should not preclude one from wearing expensive accessories.
⁶
Of course, my matching Kate Spade bag nicely ties the ensemble together. Yes, it’s called STYLE, people. You might want to acquaint yourselves with the concept.

Anyway, what a lousy bunch of suck-ups most of the folks here are. All those losers were hanging on my every word! Now I’m trying to head to the ladies’ room and even that’s a task. Feels like I can’t take a step without being accosted by enthusiastic crowds of parasitic second-tier sales weasels. And all the kudos? Getting a wee bit old.

“Oh, Jen, congratulations! You rock!”

Uh-huh. And your point is?

“Wow, Jennifer, your presentation was, like, amazing…. You are, like, so gifted at public speaking.”

Yeah, I’m gifted. My smooth, confident delivery had nothing to do with the fact that I practiced my presentation in my hotel room’s mirror for ten hours the day before I gave it while everyone else was at a poolside luau. Isn’t it, like, a total shock that the most prepared person, like, won?

“Jenny, hey, um, hi. Do you think you could forward me that awesome PowerPoint you created?”

Oh, hey, um, you mean the PowerPoint that I worked on at home every single day for a month? The creation of which forced me to give up four entire weekends of my life? Is that the one you mean? Don’t hold your breath. And don’t call me Jenny.

“Excuse me, but aren’t you the girl who won?”

How ever did you guess, Nancy Drew? Other than hearing the cavalcade of your colleagues congratulating me, I mean.

“What will you do with that big cash prize?”

Funny, but you don’t look like my mother. I wasn’t kidding when I announced at the awards ceremony, “Screw Disneyland. I’m going to Prada.”

In reality, I smile, nod at all the well-wishers, and keep my acid tongue to myself. It’s tough, but I am nothing if not professional.

I head to the washroom in the bowels of the vessel. For such a nice boat, the bathroom is small, dark, cramped, and…is that pot smoke? Is Captain Hazelwood our skipper? And, eeww!…they have one of those creepy pump toilets. I think I can hold it until we dock. I’ll just fix myself up instead.

There’s barely enough room to do a quick twirl, but I manage.
⁷
I lean in for a closer look at my reflection and Angelina Jolie gazes back at me. Well, that may be a slight exaggeration, but my features are nicely placed, my eyes are a stunning emerald (contacts, but who cares?), and my skin is clear and golden brown from the sun. I finally stopped breaking out when I hit thirty, and no wrinkles yet, either. Huzzah!

Coif? A bit wavy today because we’re on the water, but my artfully applied caramel highlights contrast sublimely with my bronzed visage. Rory, my colorist, does EVERYONE who’s anyone in Chicago and she’s well worth the $300.

Cosmetics? All by Christian Dior, so my face is holding up nicely in the heat. When you’re out in the sun, the trick is to use a light hand with the shimmer powder lest you
want
to look like a truck stop waitress. One girl on deck now is so sparkly that I’m tempted to ask her for a pork chop and a side of grits, and a warm-up when you get the chance, hon.

Body? Tall and strong and lean, of course.

Or, tall anyway. And I’m confident that the rest will be true as soon as I find time to drag my untoned ass to the gym. But it’s hard given all the hours I work. There’s only so much time, and right now, the bulk is spent advancing my career. Despite my best efforts, I’m not
quite
perfect. Let’s just say I’m like one of those Hopi blankets where they leave a tiny flaw so as to not affront the Lord. (Don’t want to offend the Big Guy, right?) Besides, after even the most intense grilling, Fletch swears that I’m wonderful just the way I am.
⁸

Final assessment: If I were a lesbian and had a thing for narcissistic ex-sorority girls? I’d
totally
do me.

I take one more peek in the mirror. My trademark marble-sized if-I’m-awake-I’m-wearing-pearls are particularly glossy in the diffused light of the bathroom…sooo pretty! With a steady hand, I apply Dior Brun Swing lipstick (matte, naturally—don’t want to look like I’ve been licking an oily dinner plate), wash my hands, and mist J’Adore Dior perfume on my neck and wrists before working my way through the smiling crowd. More congratulations and slaps on the back. Ah, the price of fame…

I don’t blame my colleagues for wanting to bask in my reflected glory. Beating more than five hundred other salespeople in the company by winning the national market leadership award yesterday catapulted me to “legend” status. And, fortunately, this should neatly shut down any lingering doubts about my salary. (Like it’s my fault some stupid temp in the New York office left my offer letter in a copy machine? I’m to blame because I talked my way into a fat paycheck? It’s called
negotiation
. Try it; it works.)

Thankfully Camille’s found someone else to annoy, so now it’s just my crowd at the back of the boat. These guys were my pals
before
I became the company rock star, not like the rest of the sycophants buzzing around me for the past few days. The fish aren’t biting, so we’ve set aside our poles in favor of drinks and dish.

Ryan gossips better than any of my sorority sisters, so I sit next to him. I love Ryan…. He is SO my style icon. He’s always Dolce& Gabbana’d from head to toe and his grooming regime puts mine to shame. His eyelashes are a mile long
⁹
and he appears to have no pores whatsoever. With his exquisitely maintained stubble, I swear he looks just like George Michael back in his Wham! days. I aspire to be as pretty as Ryan. As he works in the Manhattan office and lives in the city, he’s my arbiter of everything trendy.

“Hey, Ryan, what’s the hot drink in New York these days?” I ask.

“This week, it’s all about the mojito,” Ryan says.

“Ooh, fun name! What is it, exactly? Is it good?”

“Absolutely delish. It’s made from Puerto Rican white rum, the premium stuff, of course, but I don’t need to tell you, now, do I?” He snorts. He knows I don’t
do
well drinks. Life is too short not to top-shelf. He places a hand on his chin and the other on his hip with his head cocked to the side in an exaggerated thinking pose. “Anyway, um, there’s muddled mint leaves, superfine sugar, club soda, and a lime garnish.” He leans in to emphasize his point. “Oh, and, sweetie, this is key. It
must
be served in a highball glass with a raw sugarcane swizzle stick.”

“But what if the bar doesn’t stock raw sugarcane swizzle sticks?”

I ask because I’ve been here before with Ryan. The last time he suggested a cocktail, I ran all over the city looking for a bar that carried cane-fermented cachaca because I “wouldn’t
possibly
know the meaning of life without having sipped a proper Woody Woodpecker.” Apparently light rum would have been an acceptable substitute, but the point turned out to be moot because I couldn’t locate the shaved navel of a buff young Cuban boy out of which to quaff this particular libation.

Exasperated, Ryan says, “What kinds of savages don’t carry sugarcane?”

Patiently, I explain, “Ryan, although Chicago is a really progressive place, the possibility
does exist
that sugarcane has not yet come to every single Windy City watering hole.”

“Then you should move out of that cow town.”

“Humor me, Ryan. Let’s say I’ve been dragged to a bachelorette party in some god-awful suburb at the one bar in the metro area not hip enough to carry sugarcane. What do I tell the bartender when he says he’s sorry, they don’t have it, and is that OK?”

“Then you are obligated to roll your eyes, sigh deeply, and tell him, ‘I guess it will
have
to be OK, won’t it?’”