We are in so much trouble.

Weblog Entry 4/10/03 A FAIRY TALE.

One upon a time there was a beautiful Executive Princess named Jennifer. She worked for a wonderful company who treated her nicely and paid her even better! She was very, very happy.

Her product line was doing great, so her company decided they would buy one of their compet.i.tors so they'd be even stronger in the marketplace. Princess Jen was a little concerned, because she'd been through mergers with other companies. She went to each of her eleven bosses (yeah, you read that right) and said, "I am concerned. I've never been through a merger where there weren't job losses." Her eleven very nice bosses promised her that her position was secure because she did such a terrific job! Hooray!

Two days later she went to work and they gave her a box and showed her the door. She said, "What happened? You promised me that every thing was going well. And that my job was secure." They were real nice and super apologetic, and said she was let go as "a business decision." She never got a better explanation.

Jen was really happy because every potential employer simply accepts the explanation of her layoff as being a "business decision." Boy, they never question that! It certainly doesn't sound like she was selling confidential information or stealing office supplies! And these potential employers always believe that a person who was crushing her goals would be cut loose for no apparent reason. So her search to find a new job with a livable salary has been so easy!

Now she has to sell her Cadillac in order to keep paying for her apartment in the ghetto.

And she's really f.u.c.king bitter.

The end.

I can deal with the fact that I have to sell the car, even though I wasn't thrilled with the idea at first, to put it mildly. I kind of launched into Fletch when he brought it up,156 until I realized that all we really have right now is each other. If we start attacking each other over what could have been, we'll fall apart. Plus, I'd rather have a couple of bucks in the bank. If a little extra money returns the smile to Fletch's face, then I'm all for it. As it is now, the car's just sitting on the street depreciating like mad, and the insurance on it in this 'hood is insane.157 What I can't deal with is what happened with Birchton. Granted, if they didn't think my site was funny, I probably wouldn't have meshed with their corporate culture. Maybe if I worked there, I'd feel constrained all the time and couldn't really be myself. Regardless, I'd have liked the chance to try.

I don't understand how they found out about my Web site. Yeah, it's been getting more and more hits lately, but it's almost totally anonymous. Even the domain registry is under Fletch's name, so there's no way to trace it back to me. I've tried to call Courtney to see if she has any scoop because Birchton's still her client and she talks to them all the time, but I haven't heard back from her. Come to think of it, neither has Brett. I hate bugging people at work, but this is making me crazy, so I'm going to call her.

I dial Courtney's direct line. "Good afternoon, thank you for calling Corp. Com.," answers a male voice.

"Mo? Is that you?" It sounds like my buddy Maurice, who's an administrative a.s.sistant at Corp. Com.

"Yes, it is. May I ask with whom I'm speaking?"

"Mo, you big nerd, it's Jen!"

"Jen girl! I miss you! Things aren't the same without you. When are we getting together for daiquiris?"

"Let's wait till it gets a little warmer so we can go somewhere outside. I'd say a couple of weeks."

"I'm going to hold you to it."

"Good. It's been way too long." I'm just about to launch into gossip mode when I remember why I called in the first place. "Sweetie, why are you answering Courtney's phone? Is she out?"

"Girl, Courtney's gone."

"You know what? I can't say I'm surprised. Last time we got together, she was on a tear about how moody Kathleen's been and how much business has dropped off. I'm glad to hear she finally got out-that place was totally stressing her."

He drops his voice. "It's no fun anymore. Everyone here is boring and ugly. Remember Friday Fiestas and margaritas at lunch? Completely over now."

"Aw, sweetie, I'm sorry to hear it."

"The good news is that it's got me thinking of opening my own Birkenstock shop up in Boystown. If I do, will you help me with the marketing?"

"Anything for you, Mo."

"Uh-oh, I'm getting the fish eye from Kathleen. I'd better scoot."

"It was so nice to talk to you. Oh, wait, I almost forgot. I want to get ahold of Court. Do you know where I can find her?"

"She went to work for one of her clients. Um, it's um...gosh, what's their name again?"

No.

NO.

She wouldn't.

I squeeze my eyes shut and clench my fists. Please don't let this be true. "Birchton & Co., perhaps?" "Yes! That's it! Birchton! I think I've got the number-do you want it?"

"No, no, I've got it. Thanks anyway, Mo. I'll talk to you later."

"Bye for now, Miss Thang."

So now I know how Birchton got my URL. Et tu, Courtney?

How could she do this to me? I would never screw someone like this, not even my worst enemy. I mean, how could she listen to me cry about being jobless and broke for all these months and then knowingly and deliberately swoop down and steal the one good opportunity from me?

Granted, I didn't necessarily handle her feelings with kid gloves, but I always tried to act in her best interests. I got bossy and officious with the Brad/Chad stuff not because I'm a b.i.t.c.h but because I wanted to protect her. I set her up with Brett because I thought he could make her happy. And this is how I'm rewarded for being a decent, honest, albeit somewhat pushy friend?

Shoot, I tried to talk her into applying at Birchton long before I ever did. With her P.R. background, I thought she'd be a great a.s.set to their organization. And even while I was interviewing there, I kept asking, "Are you sure you don't want the job? It would get you away from Kathleen and you'd be great at it." I gave her every chance to claim this job honestly, and instead she tacitly denied any interest while sticking a knife in my back.

I will never forgive or forget this.

You are dead to me, Courtney. Dead.

Randolph Street Starbucks Weblog Entry 4/13/03 WHEN I GROW UP.

Oddly enough, I'm flattered my website had the power to keep me from getting hired. Any company who doesn't get what this site is about probably isn't the place for me. Unfortunately, I still need to do something to pay bills, so the job search continues.

As my current efforts to procure work in my field have been wholly unsuccessful, I feel I may be best off starting a different career.

But doing what? I have no idea.

Kids seem to have the inside track on good adult jobs, so I decided to seek advice from my six year-old nephew Cam. He proved to be an excellent sounding board and told me that he's considering careers as, "A banker like Uncle Joe, a painter like Jackson Pollock, or the guy who helps you find stuff at the grocery store." Well, these ideas sound good in theory, but I'm bad with money, lack artistic skill, and recently spent 25 minutes searching for canned olives at the local Jewel, so these careers are out.

I then queried Max, Cam's four year-old brother, what his future plans might entail. Max would like to paint houses, drive a truck, or "punch you in the stupid head."158 Sarah, their two year-old sister, had the least enlightening suggestions, because all she could tell me was, "I like 'nakes! I like 'nakes! I like 'nakes!" I really hate snakes, so a job in the Reptile House is not realistic.

Since these are the only kids I know, I decided to re-examine my various college majors in order to come up with a new career. I graduated with a degree in Political Science...but I've already been a waitress and I wasn't very good at it. Apparently I am "not friendly."159 I'd previously majored in Archeology until my father strongly advised me to switch. He believed I'd quit the minute I got to a desert and decided it was too hot to be digging around outside.160 Interior Designer is also out because I only like one style. I suspect clients would quickly tire of pink walls and cabbage rose prints.

My only other major was Journalism and even though I love to write, I transferred out of that school because I wanted to make more than $17K/year once I graduated. Plus, I think newspapers frown on you writing feature articles about yourself, and, unfortunately, I'm my favorite topic.

I've determined the ideal job for me is one where I can write clever essays about my life and my employer will give me enough money not only to live a comfortable existence, but also to buy many, many new pairs of shoes.

Please let me know where to send my application.

To: [email protected] From: Adam Date: April 15, 2003 Subject: Loser Jen, My name is Adam and I am currently working for [MONOLITHIC AMERICAN AUTO MANUFACTURER] in Michigan. I chose engineering because I liked it and there are a lot of jobs in this area for engineers. There are women engineers here, too. They are a minority in this field and they get paid more for doing the same job I do, yet they move up the corporate ladder at an alarming pace.

Why the h.e.l.l would you get a political science degree and live in Chicago? You need to relocate to the Baltimore/D.C. area to put that degree to use. A Master's Degree in that field is definitely required to make a decent living. You claim to be an intelligent person so go out and get any job, move back in with your parents, go back to school and get a real degree. Or, do like most women do; find a man and have him support you while you go back to school.

Adam

To: Adam From: Date: April 15, 2003 Subject: RE: Loser Hi, Adam, I've not had any hate mail for a while and I'd forgotten how invigorating it can be, so thank you for writing! Fortunately, you caught me on a good day, so you won't be subject to my usual evisceration with the speculation to the root cause of your issues with women. Nope, the words "latent h.o.m.os.e.xual" will not pa.s.s my lips.

I'll even begin by agreeing with you. I don't think anyone at MAAM should be promoted or paid better strictly based on gender. Or race, age, handicap, or s.e.xual preference for that matter. (So you're totally safe.) Personally, I believe an employee should be compensated solely on his performance. But I don't work for MAAM and I can't say that this isn't the case. Perhaps it's your perceptions that are faulty and not the a.s.s-kicking chicks who work around you.

What I find interesting is that according to my website tracking software, you only spent six minutes reading my website. Yet in these six minutes, you feel you've figured out a better way for me to live my life. Presumptuous, don't you think? But if you'd dug in my site just a bit further and had spent more than an average of eight seconds per page 161 you'd have all the answers to your questions and the reasons behind my decisions.

Bottom line, I'm alarmed that a person with no eye for detail or pa.s.sion for investigation is designing cars. So I not only hold you personally responsible for designing the s.h.i.tty cup holder in my old Cadillac, but also for engineering a car that lost $35,000 in value in the five years since it was manufactured. Perhaps if you'd made a better car, I'd have had more than $2500 to live off of when I was forced to sell it. (And in cherry condition no less!) Seriously, even the Koreans are kicking MAAM's a.s.s, so here's a suggestion...get the h.e.l.l off the Internet and start designing a better cup holder RIGHT NOW.

Supersize me, Jen

We were ten minutes into our Easter road trip to my parents' house when something important detached itself from something else important in Fletch's SUV, stranding us on the Kennedy Expressway. Later, the mechanic described the problem using words like manifold, gasket, and cracked block, but all I heard was la, la, la, really expensive, la, la, la. The repairs took a big chunk of the money we received from selling my precious Cadillac. Now instead of having enough rent money to last all summer, we have A HUGE PROBLEM.

Normally I look to Fletch to resolve our crises, but it's hard for him to address this one when he can't even get out of bed. No, scratch that. He can get up long enough to head to the local package store to pick up a twelve-pack. I should get on him for drinking too much, but right now, a Miller High Life temporary escape is the only thing that makes him happy. Otherwise, he mopes around the house, full of regret.

He's not the only one who's miserable right now. Seems like everywhere I look, I'm haunted by bad choices. I feel sick to my stomach each time I open the hall closet and see row after row of designer purchases. Why did I need an $800 bag to make myself feel important? How was my life enriched by a mink-lined raincoat?

I settle in front of the television in an attempt to get my mind off our situation. I'm flipping through the channels when the face of another one of my stupid choices appears. Brian Lamb, founder of C-SPAN, is on and I'm suddenly reminded of our interview when I was in college.

Brian was my friend Dee Dee's uncle and, from what I understood, a d.a.m.n fine one at that. He doted on Dee, and if she asked him to interview one of her friends as a favor, often he would. Although getting the internship was contingent on the applicant's talents, he'd always give her friends a chance.

As a poli-sci major, I salivated at the thought of working for C-SPAN. So when Dee told me the date he'd be in town (and planned to have dinner at the restaurant where we worked), I knew I'd have the opportunity to meet him and would happily pimp myself for a job.

We didn't have a formal sit-down planned. Brian didn't know we'd be meeting. I was too chickens.h.i.t to ask for a proper interview because I thought I'd be more natural in a social setting, so Dee agreed to just spring me on him. When my shift ended and I waited for him to make an appearance, I had a quick c.o.c.ktail to calm my nerves. I wanted to be confident and relaxed. If I met him in the state I was in, I'd seem like an anxiety-ridden basket case and no one gives internships to mental girls. I had one tiny Johnnie Walker Black Scotch and soda because I was too nervous to eat.

After my drink, I felt less tense, but thought that maybe one more drink would make me even more confident. I mean, really, this was my career we were talking about! I had an obligation to present myself in the best possible light, so yes, please, add another Johnnie Black to my tab. Imagine, then, how much better I felt after drinks three, four, and five! By the time Brian came in, I was relaxed, let me tell you.

Dee led me over for the big introduction. This was my chance! My whole postgraduate future loomed before me! If I played my cards right, I could turn a C-SPAN internship into an entry-level job with a lobbying firm, at which I'd excel. I'd quickly go from lackey to power broker, and all the most important folks in Washington would have me on speed dial. "Oh, yes," they'd say. "J.A. Lancaster's the person to call to get things done." I figured I'd go by my initials because they're gender neutral. And then? When I showed up in a fabulously short skirt and long jacket? I'd blow their minds, and all the rich men in the office would want to take me out to dinner, where I'd floor them with the one-two punch of beauty and brains, and they wouldn't bat an eye when I ordered both the pistachio creme brlee AND the chocolate lava cake because I wanted "just a small taste" of both.

I'd be the toast of Washington and news shows would clamor to make me a special correspondent. I'd tool around the Beltway in a convertible and a pillbox hat, having single-handedly resurrected Jackie Kennedy's Camelot style. I'd live in a deluxe town house in Georgetown, just like Murphy Brown, and I'd have two giant, slob-bery bulldogs who I'd name Winston and Churchill. The Washington Post would name me "D.C.'s Most Eligible Bachelorette." Next thing you know I'd be Mrs. Senator So-and-so and my soirees would be so cool that Us Weekly would cover them. Then my husband would get an amba.s.sadorship somewhere really awesome like Fiji, and I could live out my golden years tanning on the beach with lots of white-jacketed butlers bringing me drinks served in pineapples so I wouldn't dehydrate.

Envisioning my glorious sun-soaked future, and with a great deal of confidence, I looked Brian Lamb square in the eye and said the three little words that would seal my fate with C-SPAN.

"I likessshh Congresssshh!"

Brian shook my hand like a trooper and returned to his meal, surrept.i.tiously dabbing my spittle from his brow with a napkin.

There would be no big house in Fiji for this Congress-liking political scientist.

And I learned that without doubt regret-based hangovers are the worst.

Without stopping to consider my actions, I grab an empty laundry basket and march straight to the closet. I toss a pile of expensive purses and outerwear into it, then immediately go to the computer to pull up my eBay account. Within half an hour, I've listed everything but my Prada bag for auction.

I'm keeping it as a living reminder never to be stupid again.

Today I managed to get Fletch out of bed before noon, so we're watching The Price Is Right together. I've become obsessed with this show and I'm not sure why. Maybe it's because watching TPIR reminds me of being a kid home for summer vacation when my only concern was which bathing suit I'd wear to our swim club later that day. Or maybe it's just nice to see happy people. I swear I tear up every time someone wins a car, especially if the person is elderly or in a military uniform.162 I'm so into the show that conversation is only allowed during the commercials. At the first break, I ask Fletch, "What did Bill say?"

I've called our landlord repeatedly for the past six weeks to complain about our air-conditioning. Or lack thereof. Each time I talk to him, he politely brushes me off, explaining that our AC unit is new and top of the line and couldn't possibly be malfunctioning. It finally occurred to me that Bill might be one of those men who prefer to discuss business with other men, so I had Fletch call him right before the show started.

"He said he'd send the contractor over right away."

"Ha! I told you he was a misogynist."

"Misogyny isn't the problem, Jen. I suspect your explanation may have been faulty."

"Pfft. I told him fifteen times the blowery thing worked fine but it never made the big whoosh full of cold, cold air so the pipes didn't get sweaty and the issue was a lack of the chilly-making juice. I said we probably just needed another box of neon like we did when our AC was out in Lincoln Park. I'm not sure how I could have expressed the problem more clearly."

Fletch rolls his eyes. "I stand corrected."