Bitter Is The New Black Part 27

"It can wait." I go back outside and hear voices coming from the deck below. I squint through the slats and spy the hippies downstairs having a barbecue. On their grill, I see corn, zucchini, eggplant, and what appears to be tofu. I'm completely flummoxed as I thought that all the pot they smoke would be giving them the kind of munchies only animal fat could satiate.182 A few minutes later, Fletch joins me. "What's up?"

"I just saw the new people next door. The guy is approximately fourteen years old and looks just like Opie Taylor from Mayberry. I wonder if he's Ron Howard's kid? Anyway, at first I thought he was there to cut the lawn until I saw him yelling at the contractor."

"They've got to be behind schedule. I've only seen one guy working on the place for the past few weeks."

"His wife was with him, too. She appears to be a twelve-year-old Chinese gymnast."

"They look young.... This is breaking news how, exactly?"

"Because I can legitimately hate them now!"

"Why is that?"

"Even though they have their own two-car garage and driveway, they parked their Land Rover in OUR parking spot!"

"What's the big deal? We have no car-it's not like we need to use it right now."

"I don't care. It's the principle of the thing! They have a million-dollar home and a garage, yet they had to hog up our s.p.a.ce. It's not right! What are we going to do about it?"

Fletch considers this heinous wrong. He looks from the new house to our parking s.p.a.ce. I just know he's crafting the perfect plan to punish the neighbors for their avarice. What is he thinking? Lining the s.p.a.ce with giant nails? Or broken gla.s.s? Surrounding their vehicle with breadcrumbs to encourage the cannibal birds to gather and, thus, pepper their shiny SUV with bird bombs?

"Perhaps we could use some of those leftover two-by-fours over there..." He points to the ever-growing pile of debris. See? I know we're totally on the same page about this. "...and erect you the cross you so richly deserve."

To: [email protected] From: An Aussie Fan Date: July 15, 2003 Subject: Can you help?

Dear Jen, I work in a site office which is an obviously male dominated workplace. I'm a 20 year old blonde girl surrounded by mostly over 35 labourers, operators, and middle management who seem to think they're funny. I'm subjected daily to bad jokes about boring subjects that have been recycled so much I can tell what they're going to say before they say it. I will often get the same "witty" comment from the same person day in day out.

What do you think is the best course of action? I usually smile politely and move the subject along hoping the employee will get the point but I'm obviously being too subtle for these brutes. Any advice?

Asking in Australia

To: An Aussie Fan From: [email protected] Date: July 22, 2003 Subject: RE: Can you help?

Dear Asking Aussie, I'm sorry it's taken a while to get back to you on your question but I had to consult an expert first. Sadly, although I think I am d.a.m.n cute (as does my mother) I've never been the kind of looker to attract unwanted attention. To solve this dilemma, I had to query my pal, The Lovely Melissa.

Of course, I'm friends with Melissa because she's as mean as I am. She had me over for drinks this weekend, and after we discussed which ex-coworkers we'd like to hit with a sock full of quarters, I asked about your issue. Her advice was simple. You must insult them when they begin to annoy you. But the key here is that it must be a subtle insult, as it can't sting until they walk away from your desk, lest you get into an ugly confrontation. Your insult must be delivered with a big smile, so they are never quiiiiiite sure whether or not you're serious. For example, for the guy that thinks he's witty-let's call him Steve, for the sake of simplicity-you could say, "Gosh Steve, do you know any funny jokes? Or is this the best you can do?" Insert grin here, and you're off.

Although I encourage you to be pleasant at the initial h.e.l.lo (no one wants to be known as the office b.i.t.c.h), you should begin to deliver the in sults the second you'd like the fellas to move along. Zing them often enough, and you'll be greeted, but then left the f.u.c.k alone so that you can work in peace.

And that's all you really want, right?

Best, Jen

Woo-hoo, I got another temp job! It's only a short-term a.s.signment, but I'll earn enough for a whole week of groceries. I'll be spending the next three days working as a receptionist. Everyone in the company will be gone on some corporate retreat, so I'm picturing myself running through the deserted halls in my jammies, la Macaulay Culkin.

They told me to expect to be bored and to make sure I had something to occupy my time. They suggested I bring a book and said it was fine to use the Internet, although they did request I refrain from surfing p.o.r.n sites.

I'm not sure if it was the twinset or loafers that led them to believe they needed to add that caveat.

Weblog Entry 7/22/03 HOME ALONE.

I'm here at my temp job literally watching paint dry. A workman from the building came by earlier and said he was here to re-do the ceiling. In my most professional voice I said, "Um, OK?" at which point he hauled in all these brushes and buckets and ladders.

Wonder if I was allowed to authorize a paint crew?

As far as temp a.s.signments go, this is kind of a dream. The phone barely rings enough for me to screw it up, although I've managed. I had to come in for training yesterday since I'd never used their phone system before. Out of the ten calls I answered, I messed up all but one, leading me to believe it's a good thing I didn't get the receptionist job at the architecture firm. Frankly, it's not quite as easy as I antic.i.p.ated. Don't know why I thought it would come so naturally-back in the day, my sorority had to take me off of phone duty because I kept hanging up on everyone's boyfriend.

It's fun to tool around the web on the job.183 However, I'm having trouble dealing with this freedom. I feel like a naughty child each time I get "caught" playing JT's Blocks when the delivery guys pa.s.s my desk. My first impulse is to hide my game, but again, I'm ALLOWED to do this, so I'm just being ridiculous.

Half the calls I've gotten today have been wrong numbers and my patience with them is running thin. They keep trying to dial a company a digit off from this one. I guess it's not as bad as when my brother's phone number was one away from the local Domino's. He finally had to change his number in order to get some sleep.

Actually, I pity anyone who gets Todd on the phone. This man considers unwanted phone calls a full-contact sport. When he moved to his new house he got a telephone number that hadn't been out of service long enough. Calls came in constantly from creditors, as the person with the number before had been a deadbeat. He got tired of trying to convince hara.s.sing callers that he wasn't "covering for" Donna Miller.

One day he received a call from her university's alumni a.s.sociation for the purpose of updating their yearly newsletter. My brother said he was Donna's husband and would be GLAD to provide answers. Among other outrageous fabrications, my brother told them that after Donna served a term in prison, she wrote the bestseller Fear and Loathing in Lesbian Loveland.

As the caller was a $5/hour phone-monkey, he had no clue that Todd was bulls.h.i.tting him and he updated the directory accordingly.

You see, a $10/hour phone-monkey like me would have known better.

"How was your day?" Fletch and the dogs are stationed on our deck, basking in the late-afternoon sun.

"Eh, it was all right," I reply.184 "What happened?"

"You know how nervous I am to temp in the Sears Tower, right? And how I'm always on edge because I think it's the next big terrorist target?"185 "Yeah, you've mentioned it a couple of thousand times."

"Well, I was relatively calm until this morning when I opened the coat closet to put my umbrella away and-"

"What you're really saying is that you were snooping."

Was he watching me on closed-circuit TV or something? "Yes, fine, I was having a look around. That's no crime. Anyway, I ran across all these little nylon packs. I opened one up and saw that they were filled with disaster-relief supplies like flashlights and masks and bottles of water. Do you know what this discovery means? It means that for once my paranoia isn't unfounded and that scared the pants off of me."

"What'd you do?"

"I spent the rest of the afternoon fighting a panic attack. Every time the phone rang, I practically soiled myself."

"That sucks."

"No kidding. By tomorrow, I'm going to need a defibrillator to revive myself after my four hundred thirty-first heart attack. Or possibly some dry pants."

Weblog Entry 7/31/03 I SPY.

While trying to take my mind off the fact that rent is due tomorrow and we have NO POSSIBLE WAY TO PAY IT, I got an email asking for more neighbor gossip. I'm thrilled to oblige and temporarily escape worrying about more pressing matters.

A couple of days ago I heard the awful people downstairs doing it at 5:30 in the afternoon.186 OK, when I'm in the middle of a finance-induced panic attack, the LAST thing I need is to hear a couple of dirty hippies going at it like guinea pigs. So you can't really blame me for shouting, "Maybe if you ate some meat you'd last longer!" when they'd finished, right?

Anyway, today I was rewarded with a beautiful clear blue sky and I spent the afternoon outdoors. I was on my lounge chair facing the alley when I observed the 12-year-old Chinese gymnast/millionaire pull up to the new house next door.187 Her car was packed to the gills with possessions and it looked like she was ready to move stuff into her new mansion. But guess what...it still wasn't ready! I know this because her tiny lungs were surprisingly powerful and I heard her shouting at the contractor. The girl was FURIOUS.

Anyway, she sped off with the words "breach of contract,"

"attorney," and "tomorrow or else" hanging in the air. At this point, I closed my book and stopped pretending to read, because real live drama trumps literature any day. I watched the contractor freak out while barking commands into his cell phone. In less than five minutes, a dozen of his relatives showed up at back door armed with cleaning supplies.

First off, I saw a handful of little kids with the gorgeous Slavic complexions and naturally highlighted hair for which I would kill. Next I saw an old Polish hippie trudge past with his trademark tie-dyed shirt, Birkenstocks, and salt-and-pepper ponytail.188 He was joined by the guy we call Uncle One Shirt, due to his penchant for wearing the same top each day. I've seen him in a half-dozen different outfits, but for some reason he chooses to vary them by week and not on a daily basis. He's the only one I've seen doing any work on the house lately, and that's consisted of pushing an empty wheelbarrow back and forth across the alley. Very strange.

A few other relatives filed past, with Grandma bringing up the rear. She's in her 70's and generally sports a babushka which is why I almost busted a gut when I spied her wearing a t-shirt featuring Robert Smith of The Cure. I wondered if Grandma wasn't actually some very hip indie rocker, so I kept murmuring lines from "Boys Don't Cry" and "Head on the Door" and "Just Like Heaven" at her while she worked in the backyard. I'd hoped for a flash of recognition, and perhaps a thumbs-up, but since she ignored me, I'm pretty sure she didn't understand a d.a.m.n word I said.

I spent the rest of the afternoon sipping a grape soda and covertly observing the action from my table with the umbrella bent down for maximum spy-ability. At one point, Cousin Simpleton thought it would be funny to hose the group down Gestapo-style with the power-washer and I had to go inside the house so they wouldn't hear me laughing. Ditto when I saw Grandma scrubbing the rough-hewn pine fence with Murphy's Oil Soap. Seriously, though, I thought it was pretty cool to watch the family pull together to get the job done. They kind of rock.

Although they annoyed the bejesus out of me, I'm a bit sad to see this particular chapter come to a close. However, my adventures in spying aren't over. A Mexican construction team just started working on a project one house over and those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds stole one of our garbage cans from the parking lot...

...game on.

"Sorry, Jen. I'm not trying to be unsympathetic; I'm simply telling you the truth. The well is dry. I've done all I can. I can't spare anything else," my mother says.

"Are you absolutely sure? We'd be able to pay you back really soon. We're still waiting for Fletch's background check to clear, and as soon as it does, the company will give him a start date. It's going to happen any day now." I am begging-unsuccessfully-for a loan from my mother to cover our rent. Although we've been told that Fletch has the job, everyone is dubious, particularly my mother.

"As is, half my check each week goes to pay for your wedding, and I've already lent you everything in my savings account. I wish I could do more, but I can't. I suggest you start packing. You're welcome to live here until you get back on your feet. The guest room is all ready for you."

"What about Dad? Would he consider a short-term loan? With interest? Can you ask him? Please?" She sets down the phone and I hear a m.u.f.fled conversation, punctuated by laughter. That can't be good.

"I guess you heard. If not, he gave a definitive no."

"I appreciate your trying. Thanks, and I'll keep you posted."

Asking my parents for a loan was my last hope. At this point, I've officially tried EVERYTHING to raise the money for rent. No one would buy my eggs at the donor place because I'm too old, despite the fact I told them it was a fire sale and they could have them ALL for five thousand dollars.

I even attempted to sell my engagement ring, but since I don't have a receipt for the diamond, no one will pay me its full value. I'm so frustrated because I know we only need about one thousand dollars to make it, but I've exhausted all my resources. The only other ways I could raise the cash are A) illegal, B) dangerous, and C) incredibly icky, and therefore are D) out of the question.

It's not that living in my parents' house again would be so bad, although I would miss my friends here in Chicago. But I feel like if we move home to Indiana, there's no chance we'll ever be able to get back to where we used to be. I don't mean materially; if we were given the chance again, I think we'd live our lives very differently. Our values have changed completely and our wants are now vastly different. I could care less about Dior's newest line of lip gloss. What I want is for my husband not to get those furrows in his brow every time the phone rings. I want to see him walk in the door, whistling after a pleasant day in the office. I want him to put his dirty travel coffee mug in the sink instead of the dishwasher, where he's supposed to leave it. I want to go to my parking s.p.a.ce and get into my car-what kind it is doesn't matter anymore-and be able to drive somewhere. I want to get up in the morning and have a purpose, whether it's answering phones or writing the great American novel. We've learned what is and isn't important, and all we need is one more chance to prove it.

I'm deep in thought when the phone rings again. Maybe it's my mom and she's had second thoughts about lending us the money! I knew she'd come around!

I swivel to look at the caller ID and the smile fades from my face.

It's our landlord's secretary.

s.h.i.t.

To: From: Kelly from Canada Date: August 5, 2003 Subject: More advice, please!

Dear Jen: My boyfriend and are in our mid-twenties. We've been living together for two years and he hasn't proposed yet. We're happy, but still a bit worried because I long for more of a commitment. Was my mom right when she said, "Why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free?"

Sincerely, Kelly (aka Waiting for the Ring)