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 by Jen Lancaster Page B
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Tags: United States, General, Humorous fiction, Personal Memoirs, Biography & Autobiography, Biography, Business & Economics, Women, Careers, Job Hunting, Unemployed women workers, Jeanne
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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. “
…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. “
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