Spaceco’s PR team. Or, more specifically, by Lynsey, the crisis consultant they’ve hired. You should see this woman, Arthur. She can’t be much more than thirty. She’s got three phones on her at all times and all the schmoozy charm of a SWAT team leader. She walks into a room, and all the men stand up. Wardrobe is just one of her jurisdictions, I guess. One of the first things she did was put me and the other conference attendees on an e-mail list and then start sending out her commando-style updates. They’re all sentence fragments, the definition of terse.
Example:
>>Ladies! Opt for skirts and heels. Soft colors (i.e. pastels) preferable. >Stick with minimal jewelry.
Yesterday morning she showed up at the house to do a quick wardrobe checkup. Liam made the appointment (he claimed) and then forgot to tell me about it. With barely so much as a how-do-you-do, she marched upstairs and straight into the walk-in closet, bulldozed her way through the piles of my dirty digging jeans and old, unraveling afghans (Paula’s crochet phase, circa 1998), and then proceeded to flick through the hangers, sighing at everything she saw. While she flicked and sighed, she subjected me to a rapid-fire list of what she called her “on-camera no-nos.” No nail-biting. No foot-jiggling. No slouching. Nothing that might make me look shady. In other words, I’m screwed.
She finally settled on the least objectionable outfit she could find, that green silk suit I wear once a year when I’m presenting at a conference, the one you said makes me look like a woman playing a politician in a miniseries. “You should get this dry-cleaned,” she said. “And get some pearls to wear with it. If you don’t already have some.” Her voice implied that she thought this was likely the case. She herself looked impeccable, perfectly equipped in a pair of tight rolled-up blue jeans, heels, and blazer. It made me think about the platitude I keep feeding Jack and Corinne, Corinne especially—the one about appearances not mattering. It made me think that I might as well give that one up. Even a five-year-old knows what a crock of shit that is. Appearances absolutely matter. They mean damn near everything.
Just so you know, I saw that Jackie O joke coming from a mile away.
Your not-amused,
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 16, 2014 10:39 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: re: pearls before swine
Seriously, Arthur, it’s not funny. Can you please drop it?
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Monday, May 19, 2014 2:03 am
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: ok, ok
I’m not sulking, you know. It’s just . . . I’m not sure where to begin.
The preliminary accident report was finished up on Wednesday evening. I can’t remember—did I already tell you that? Everyone and their brother was here working on it round the clock, and they didn’t leave until almost ten. I’d been upstairs, reading to Corinne, and after that I came down to start rounding up stray coffee mugs. (The Spaceconauts consume prodigious amounts of caffeine.) When I walked into the study, there was Liam, sitting in the dark. I almost didn’t see him. He was in his desk chair, leaning back, his legs stretched out in front of him. He had my old UM hat covering his face, as though he were dozing, although I knew he wasn’t. Liam has never napped in his life. It’s against his nonreligion.
In fact, it was so odd to see him that way that I didn’t turn around. I just stood there for a minute, the mugs in my hand, watching him and waiting. Finally he pulled the hat down onto his chest and looked at me.
“Yes?” he said.
“All finished?” I said.
“More or less.” He rubbed his eyes and reached over to wake up his laptop.
No more details seemed to be forthcoming. “So?” I
Example:
>>Ladies! Opt for skirts and heels. Soft colors (i.e. pastels) preferable. >Stick with minimal jewelry.
Yesterday morning she showed up at the house to do a quick wardrobe checkup. Liam made the appointment (he claimed) and then forgot to tell me about it. With barely so much as a how-do-you-do, she marched upstairs and straight into the walk-in closet, bulldozed her way through the piles of my dirty digging jeans and old, unraveling afghans (Paula’s crochet phase, circa 1998), and then proceeded to flick through the hangers, sighing at everything she saw. While she flicked and sighed, she subjected me to a rapid-fire list of what she called her “on-camera no-nos.” No nail-biting. No foot-jiggling. No slouching. Nothing that might make me look shady. In other words, I’m screwed.
She finally settled on the least objectionable outfit she could find, that green silk suit I wear once a year when I’m presenting at a conference, the one you said makes me look like a woman playing a politician in a miniseries. “You should get this dry-cleaned,” she said. “And get some pearls to wear with it. If you don’t already have some.” Her voice implied that she thought this was likely the case. She herself looked impeccable, perfectly equipped in a pair of tight rolled-up blue jeans, heels, and blazer. It made me think about the platitude I keep feeding Jack and Corinne, Corinne especially—the one about appearances not mattering. It made me think that I might as well give that one up. Even a five-year-old knows what a crock of shit that is. Appearances absolutely matter. They mean damn near everything.
Just so you know, I saw that Jackie O joke coming from a mile away.
Your not-amused,
Jess
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Friday, May 16, 2014 10:39 pm
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: Re: re: pearls before swine
Seriously, Arthur, it’s not funny. Can you please drop it?
From: Jessica Frobisher
Sent: Monday, May 19, 2014 2:03 am
To: Arthur Danielson
Cc:
Bcc:
Subject: ok, ok
I’m not sulking, you know. It’s just . . . I’m not sure where to begin.
The preliminary accident report was finished up on Wednesday evening. I can’t remember—did I already tell you that? Everyone and their brother was here working on it round the clock, and they didn’t leave until almost ten. I’d been upstairs, reading to Corinne, and after that I came down to start rounding up stray coffee mugs. (The Spaceconauts consume prodigious amounts of caffeine.) When I walked into the study, there was Liam, sitting in the dark. I almost didn’t see him. He was in his desk chair, leaning back, his legs stretched out in front of him. He had my old UM hat covering his face, as though he were dozing, although I knew he wasn’t. Liam has never napped in his life. It’s against his nonreligion.
In fact, it was so odd to see him that way that I didn’t turn around. I just stood there for a minute, the mugs in my hand, watching him and waiting. Finally he pulled the hat down onto his chest and looked at me.
“Yes?” he said.
“All finished?” I said.
“More or less.” He rubbed his eyes and reached over to wake up his laptop.
No more details seemed to be forthcoming. “So?” I
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