Read Online 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 - Free Book Online
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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sorry, Miss Lancaster, but I don’t see nothing in the computer for you. Do you wanna reschedule?”
“Are you kidding? I just booked this yesterday. Check again! I’m sure it’s there.” I begin to panic. I cannot spend one more day looking at these platinum streaks and dark chestnut roots.
“Ooooh. I see the problem. Your appointment was yesterday at three thirty. You’re mistaken. You gotta reschedule.”
OK, deep breath, I tell myself. Let’s not go to jail for punching an aspiring model. They won’t let you wear cute shoes in jail and you’re already someone’s girlfriend. Maintain, maintain, maintain .
“No, you’re mistaken,” I say as calmly as I can, resisting the urge to get all Sean Penn on her. “You see, I didn’t call to schedule until after three thirty yesterday. My appointment, FOR COLOR, WITH RORY, was for today at three thirty.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Positive.”
She does some more tapping. She swivels the monitor toward me and points to the time with a French-manicured nail tip. “See? We got you down for three thirty yesterday. So you musta got the day wrong. Care to reschedule?”
Good air in, bad air out. Good air in, bad air out. I force my hands to stop making fists and I mentally talk myself down from the bell tower. She can’t help it if she grew up eating lead paint chips, right? I force my pulse to slow as I gulp down air. OK. I’m OK. Crisis averted.
I clear my throat and speak in tones so clipped I could cut my own hair. Very slowly, I say, “It. Would. Have. Been. Impossible. For. Me. To. Have. A. Three thirty. Yesterday. Unless I had a time machine. But, unfortunately, I am not a character in an H. G. Wells novel. So, my appointment is at three thirty TODAY.”
She cocks her head and begins to peck away again. I wait while she pulls up another screen on the computer. “Nope, sorry. I don’t see no appointment for a Wells either.”
AARRRGGGHHH! I’m so tired of dealing with idiots with jobs. People are rude and stupid everywhere I go. At the grocery store, it’s like pulling teeth to get the cashier to say thank you. It would take an act of God or Congress to keep her from packing my toilet bowl cleaner and bread in the same bag.
Or how about all the buffoons who drive buses in this city? The few times I’ve ridden the 56 route, the driver acts like he’s doing me a favor if he comes to a complete stop when it’s time to exit. Yeah, sorry, Manuel, but it’s kind of hard for me to tuck and roll in a Calvin Klein cigarette skirt. No wonder I always take cabs!
How are any of these people still employed? And you want to talk about witless wonders? What about the brain trusts I encounter every day on sales calls? I don’t know how these people get to work every day without bumping their heads, let alone make the kinds of decisions that keep their respective companies in business.
You know what? We need a recession in this country, because that would finally weed out all the subnormal, underdeveloped, stupefied, puerile people in this workforce.
Before I unleash my secret weapon 34 and hurl myself across the desk to throttle Miss Orange Hair for her crimes against me and the English language, Rory appears.
“Rory! Thank God! I’m about to commit a felony.”
“Please don’t do that—you’d hate jail. They don’t provide conditioner.”
“The MENSA members you have working here say I don’t have an appointment.” The handful of clerks bright enough to realize I’m insulting them glower in my direction.
“Honey, you’re going to have to start taking your hair a little less seriously.”
“Never.”
Rory laughs. “Regardless, I have time and I can take you now. It’s the weirdest thing—my afternoon is clear because none of my appointments showed up.” We walk back to her color station.
“Yeah? Ten bucks says they come in tomorrow.”
Crash and Burn
----
CORP.COM.EMAIL
To: SweetMelissa
From: [email protected] Date:
“Are you kidding? I just booked this yesterday. Check again! I’m sure it’s there.” I begin to panic. I cannot spend one more day looking at these platinum streaks and dark chestnut roots.
“Ooooh. I see the problem. Your appointment was yesterday at three thirty. You’re mistaken. You gotta reschedule.”
OK, deep breath, I tell myself. Let’s not go to jail for punching an aspiring model. They won’t let you wear cute shoes in jail and you’re already someone’s girlfriend. Maintain, maintain, maintain .
“No, you’re mistaken,” I say as calmly as I can, resisting the urge to get all Sean Penn on her. “You see, I didn’t call to schedule until after three thirty yesterday. My appointment, FOR COLOR, WITH RORY, was for today at three thirty.”
“You sure?” she asks.
“Positive.”
She does some more tapping. She swivels the monitor toward me and points to the time with a French-manicured nail tip. “See? We got you down for three thirty yesterday. So you musta got the day wrong. Care to reschedule?”
Good air in, bad air out. Good air in, bad air out. I force my hands to stop making fists and I mentally talk myself down from the bell tower. She can’t help it if she grew up eating lead paint chips, right? I force my pulse to slow as I gulp down air. OK. I’m OK. Crisis averted.
I clear my throat and speak in tones so clipped I could cut my own hair. Very slowly, I say, “It. Would. Have. Been. Impossible. For. Me. To. Have. A. Three thirty. Yesterday. Unless I had a time machine. But, unfortunately, I am not a character in an H. G. Wells novel. So, my appointment is at three thirty TODAY.”
She cocks her head and begins to peck away again. I wait while she pulls up another screen on the computer. “Nope, sorry. I don’t see no appointment for a Wells either.”
AARRRGGGHHH! I’m so tired of dealing with idiots with jobs. People are rude and stupid everywhere I go. At the grocery store, it’s like pulling teeth to get the cashier to say thank you. It would take an act of God or Congress to keep her from packing my toilet bowl cleaner and bread in the same bag.
Or how about all the buffoons who drive buses in this city? The few times I’ve ridden the 56 route, the driver acts like he’s doing me a favor if he comes to a complete stop when it’s time to exit. Yeah, sorry, Manuel, but it’s kind of hard for me to tuck and roll in a Calvin Klein cigarette skirt. No wonder I always take cabs!
How are any of these people still employed? And you want to talk about witless wonders? What about the brain trusts I encounter every day on sales calls? I don’t know how these people get to work every day without bumping their heads, let alone make the kinds of decisions that keep their respective companies in business.
You know what? We need a recession in this country, because that would finally weed out all the subnormal, underdeveloped, stupefied, puerile people in this workforce.
Before I unleash my secret weapon 34 and hurl myself across the desk to throttle Miss Orange Hair for her crimes against me and the English language, Rory appears.
“Rory! Thank God! I’m about to commit a felony.”
“Please don’t do that—you’d hate jail. They don’t provide conditioner.”
“The MENSA members you have working here say I don’t have an appointment.” The handful of clerks bright enough to realize I’m insulting them glower in my direction.
“Honey, you’re going to have to start taking your hair a little less seriously.”
“Never.”
Rory laughs. “Regardless, I have time and I can take you now. It’s the weirdest thing—my afternoon is clear because none of my appointments showed up.” We walk back to her color station.
“Yeah? Ten bucks says they come in tomorrow.”
Crash and Burn
----
CORP.COM.EMAIL
To: SweetMelissa
From: [email protected] Date:
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