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 Read Online Free PDF
Author: Jen Lancaster
catered to-do at the Drake with a top-shelf open bar and peapod-wrapped shrimp trays circulating while a string quartet plays right before your choice of prime rib or lobster tails is served may have crossed my mind . But only once or twice.
Courtney and I meet up at the baggage claim to wait for Fletch. Until now, we haven’t had a chance to talk. She sat with Chad on the bus from the resort and dawdled with him so long in the Jacksonville airport that we couldn’t get seats together on the flight. At one point, I noticed her quietly crying on the plane. Out of guilt, I assumed.
I interrogate her about what happened with the Chadifornicator, and Courtney blurts out that she’s in love.
“Of course, you’re in love. That’s why you’re getting married. It’s not uncommon,” I say.
“No, with Chad. I’m in love with Chad,” she sniffs.
“WHAT?!?” I shout, attracting the attention of every single person on flight 973 from Atlanta waiting around carousel five in the baggage claim. “You met him five freaking minutes ago! That’s not enough time to fall in love. That’s not even enough time to fall in like. Lust? Maybe, but definitely not like. And what about Brad ? Did you NOT just get engaged?”
“I know,” she weeps. “I’d been planning to break up with Brad because things just weren’t working anymore between us. But then Hawaii was so romantic and the sun was setting and waves were crashing and we were drinking mai tais and his proposal was so sweet…I didn’t think. I just let myself get swept up in the moment. I knew it was wrong the minute I said yes. I haven’t even told my family about our engagement yet,” she says. Her eyes get watery and she begins to sniffle. I root around in my bag to find her a Kleenex. Ooh, look, I have gum!
I remember something. “Wait, weren’t you drinking mai tais with Chad at the sales conference when you hooked up?”
Courtney blows her nose while nodding yes.
“Essentially, you allowed a fruity rum punch to alter the course of your life TWICE? Oh, my God, you’re such a WHORE!” This brings a fresh spate of tears. I know I should be more compassionate, but when you sleep around while wearing someone else’s ring, I have trouble mustering sympathetic noises.
“Court…Court…COURTNEY! Listen to me. You have to be honest with Brad. Not later. Now. You cannot string him along anymore. It’s just not right.” Courtney begins to cry huge racking sobs.
“People are looking at us. Can you please make them stop?” she begs.
“What do you expect? Acting like a whore attracts attention. They probably think you’re here to go on Jerry Springer .”
“WAH!”
“OK, OK, I’m on it.” I look around. Although everyone from the Atlanta flight has collected their luggage, they’ve yet to leave. A sweaty fat man with an orange flowered vinyl bag has moved right next to us to hear better. I whirl around to face him. “Yo, Marlon Brando, yeah, with the ugly carry-on, move along. Also? Burn that bag when you get home.” I see an older woman with stop sign red hair pretending to tie her shoes. Perhaps if they weren’t LOAFERS her ruse would be more credible. “And you, Red? Aren’t you old enough to know better? FYI, a six-dollar box of hair color is NOT a bargain. Get going. And the rest of you?” I sweep the crowd with an accusatory finger. “Seriously, piss off. This does not concern you.” I stomp a pony-skinned mule and make shooing motions.
We attract the attention of airport security. An officer cautiously moves toward us and I see him pat his waist in the direction of his side arm. “Oh, keep your polyester pants on, Rent-a-Cop,” I say, waving dismissively in his direction. “Everything is fine. The situation is handled. My friend here is simply dealing with the ramifications of being a whore.”
“Please stop calling me that!” she howls.
“Stop making me. If you know in your heart that it’s over, then you have to do the
Courtney and I meet up at the baggage claim to wait for Fletch. Until now, we haven’t had a chance to talk. She sat with Chad on the bus from the resort and dawdled with him so long in the Jacksonville airport that we couldn’t get seats together on the flight. At one point, I noticed her quietly crying on the plane. Out of guilt, I assumed.
I interrogate her about what happened with the Chadifornicator, and Courtney blurts out that she’s in love.
“Of course, you’re in love. That’s why you’re getting married. It’s not uncommon,” I say.
“No, with Chad. I’m in love with Chad,” she sniffs.
“WHAT?!?” I shout, attracting the attention of every single person on flight 973 from Atlanta waiting around carousel five in the baggage claim. “You met him five freaking minutes ago! That’s not enough time to fall in love. That’s not even enough time to fall in like. Lust? Maybe, but definitely not like. And what about Brad ? Did you NOT just get engaged?”
“I know,” she weeps. “I’d been planning to break up with Brad because things just weren’t working anymore between us. But then Hawaii was so romantic and the sun was setting and waves were crashing and we were drinking mai tais and his proposal was so sweet…I didn’t think. I just let myself get swept up in the moment. I knew it was wrong the minute I said yes. I haven’t even told my family about our engagement yet,” she says. Her eyes get watery and she begins to sniffle. I root around in my bag to find her a Kleenex. Ooh, look, I have gum!
I remember something. “Wait, weren’t you drinking mai tais with Chad at the sales conference when you hooked up?”
Courtney blows her nose while nodding yes.
“Essentially, you allowed a fruity rum punch to alter the course of your life TWICE? Oh, my God, you’re such a WHORE!” This brings a fresh spate of tears. I know I should be more compassionate, but when you sleep around while wearing someone else’s ring, I have trouble mustering sympathetic noises.
“Court…Court…COURTNEY! Listen to me. You have to be honest with Brad. Not later. Now. You cannot string him along anymore. It’s just not right.” Courtney begins to cry huge racking sobs.
“People are looking at us. Can you please make them stop?” she begs.
“What do you expect? Acting like a whore attracts attention. They probably think you’re here to go on Jerry Springer .”
“WAH!”
“OK, OK, I’m on it.” I look around. Although everyone from the Atlanta flight has collected their luggage, they’ve yet to leave. A sweaty fat man with an orange flowered vinyl bag has moved right next to us to hear better. I whirl around to face him. “Yo, Marlon Brando, yeah, with the ugly carry-on, move along. Also? Burn that bag when you get home.” I see an older woman with stop sign red hair pretending to tie her shoes. Perhaps if they weren’t LOAFERS her ruse would be more credible. “And you, Red? Aren’t you old enough to know better? FYI, a six-dollar box of hair color is NOT a bargain. Get going. And the rest of you?” I sweep the crowd with an accusatory finger. “Seriously, piss off. This does not concern you.” I stomp a pony-skinned mule and make shooing motions.
We attract the attention of airport security. An officer cautiously moves toward us and I see him pat his waist in the direction of his side arm. “Oh, keep your polyester pants on, Rent-a-Cop,” I say, waving dismissively in his direction. “Everything is fine. The situation is handled. My friend here is simply dealing with the ramifications of being a whore.”
“Please stop calling me that!” she howls.
“Stop making me. If you know in your heart that it’s over, then you have to do the
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