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 Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
marketing material and I needed a place to keep it and corporate won’t let me send it back. So, um, yeah, sorry ’bout that.”
“OK.” I wasn’t thrilled, but they were still paying me an outrageous sum, so I guessed I could make do. “Where will I be sitting?”
“Um, we don’t have a receptionist anymore, so her desk is open. Would that be cool? It’s, like, a really big work space.”
I glanced at the desk. “Don’t people enter through these doors, and won’t they naturally come to me—the person sitting at the reception desk—for assistance?”
“Um, well, not that much, and you could page people if they had a visitor and delivering stuff won’t take you too long and—”
I interrupted again. “Will, would distributing UPS packages really be what you consider the best use of my time and salary?”
“Um, um…” he stammered.
“No? Then get me a different work space.”
“OK, follow me.” He took off down a long hallway as I trailed behind him a few paces.
“And, seriously? Consider Ritalin. They’re doing amazing things with adult ADD lately.”
“What’d you say?” Will turned with an accusatory look on his face.
“I said I was seriously G-L-A-D to be on board. Now let’s find me that desk.”
So I’m back in a cube again. It’s not as bad as I thought since it’s relatively private and I’ve got a great lake view. Still, there’s nothing more satisfying than righteously slamming your office door when the hoi polloi gets too loud. Speaking of loud, the salesmen at Midwest IR were incredibly noisy. Someone thought our team would produce more if we had a creative outlet. Were we supplied with piped-in music or theater tickets or thought-provoking team-building exercises? No. We got an air hockey table. I can’t tell you how annoyed I was by the testosterone-charged cheers that ricocheted off the walls all day. Most days I’d swear I worked in a sports bar.
My old coworkers used to bitch when I’d scoot out of the office after eight hours. They didn’t understand how I managed to meet my goals, especially since they claimed to work twelve-hour days. Yeah, you know what, guys? I actually have worked twelve-hour days. Those four hours you played air hockey? Don’t count.
I suspected my old job would be a challenge because it was an investor relations firm and I knew nothing about the financial world. I thought PE ratios had to do with gym class statistics and mutual funds were the bills in Fletch’s wallet.
Stan, Midwest IR’s chief operating officer, promised to teach me everything I needed to know about the business. I jumped at the chance to learn from him. He may have been clad in a $1200 suit and Ferragamo loafers, but he was still “straight outta Jersey.” I was enamored by his Newark-tinged plain talk. Such a refreshing change from the mild-mannered, mealymouthed Midwesterners at the HMO! Sure, my old bosses were pleasant and polite, but they tried to steal credit for my deals and ideas more times than I care to mention.
The last thing Stan said in my final interview was “This is a male-dominated company in a male-dominated industry. I’m talking total boys’ club heah. I never hired a woman to do sales befoah because I don’t wanna deal with complaints. Ya wanna run with the boys, ya gotta let ’em be boys. I need to know, Jen, what would ya do when ya heah the guy sitting next to ya say, ‘I banged my girlfriend in the ayse last night’?” 29
Momentarily stunned, I answered truthfully, “I’d probably laugh.”
“Good ansah. ’Cause I don’ like bein’ sued. Ya hired.”
What’s funny is that I was usually responsible for the embarrassing. The other salesmen had graduated from various Ivy League universities and many had been brokers. Although competitive air hockey players, they were as dull as dry toast and spoke endlessly about their portfolios. I’d have welcomed a sodomy story just to break up the monotone ejaculations about
“OK.” I wasn’t thrilled, but they were still paying me an outrageous sum, so I guessed I could make do. “Where will I be sitting?”
“Um, we don’t have a receptionist anymore, so her desk is open. Would that be cool? It’s, like, a really big work space.”
I glanced at the desk. “Don’t people enter through these doors, and won’t they naturally come to me—the person sitting at the reception desk—for assistance?”
“Um, well, not that much, and you could page people if they had a visitor and delivering stuff won’t take you too long and—”
I interrupted again. “Will, would distributing UPS packages really be what you consider the best use of my time and salary?”
“Um, um…” he stammered.
“No? Then get me a different work space.”
“OK, follow me.” He took off down a long hallway as I trailed behind him a few paces.
“And, seriously? Consider Ritalin. They’re doing amazing things with adult ADD lately.”
“What’d you say?” Will turned with an accusatory look on his face.
“I said I was seriously G-L-A-D to be on board. Now let’s find me that desk.”
So I’m back in a cube again. It’s not as bad as I thought since it’s relatively private and I’ve got a great lake view. Still, there’s nothing more satisfying than righteously slamming your office door when the hoi polloi gets too loud. Speaking of loud, the salesmen at Midwest IR were incredibly noisy. Someone thought our team would produce more if we had a creative outlet. Were we supplied with piped-in music or theater tickets or thought-provoking team-building exercises? No. We got an air hockey table. I can’t tell you how annoyed I was by the testosterone-charged cheers that ricocheted off the walls all day. Most days I’d swear I worked in a sports bar.
My old coworkers used to bitch when I’d scoot out of the office after eight hours. They didn’t understand how I managed to meet my goals, especially since they claimed to work twelve-hour days. Yeah, you know what, guys? I actually have worked twelve-hour days. Those four hours you played air hockey? Don’t count.
I suspected my old job would be a challenge because it was an investor relations firm and I knew nothing about the financial world. I thought PE ratios had to do with gym class statistics and mutual funds were the bills in Fletch’s wallet.
Stan, Midwest IR’s chief operating officer, promised to teach me everything I needed to know about the business. I jumped at the chance to learn from him. He may have been clad in a $1200 suit and Ferragamo loafers, but he was still “straight outta Jersey.” I was enamored by his Newark-tinged plain talk. Such a refreshing change from the mild-mannered, mealymouthed Midwesterners at the HMO! Sure, my old bosses were pleasant and polite, but they tried to steal credit for my deals and ideas more times than I care to mention.
The last thing Stan said in my final interview was “This is a male-dominated company in a male-dominated industry. I’m talking total boys’ club heah. I never hired a woman to do sales befoah because I don’t wanna deal with complaints. Ya wanna run with the boys, ya gotta let ’em be boys. I need to know, Jen, what would ya do when ya heah the guy sitting next to ya say, ‘I banged my girlfriend in the ayse last night’?” 29
Momentarily stunned, I answered truthfully, “I’d probably laugh.”
“Good ansah. ’Cause I don’ like bein’ sued. Ya hired.”
What’s funny is that I was usually responsible for the embarrassing. The other salesmen had graduated from various Ivy League universities and many had been brokers. Although competitive air hockey players, they were as dull as dry toast and spoke endlessly about their portfolios. I’d have welcomed a sodomy story just to break up the monotone ejaculations about
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