Free 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

armrests. I’m not sure if I want to lie on it or lick it.
    “You certainly have the eye,” says a salesman, appearing out of nowhere. “The MOMA featured this couch in a minimalist design exhibit.”
    “Fletch! Did you hear that? The MOMA! A MOMA couch would definitely suit my, er, I mean, our needs,” I gush.
    “Do you even know what the MOMA is?” he asks.
    “Shut up! Of course, I do,” I snap. 37 “Don’t you love it? Don’t you want to have it right this minute ?”
    “This is the finest piece in our collection. Each one is handcrafted by a master carpenter in Italy,” notes the salesman.
    “Fletch! An Italian master carpenter!” I am practically swooning.
    “Do you notice what it’s missing?” he asks.
    “Nothing! It’s perfect!” I exclaim.
    “Jen, there’s no back. This is a backless couch. How do you get comfortable on a backless couch?”
    “Oh. I think you lie flat on it.” I sit down with a thud for a trial run. Ow! For such a pretty piece, it’s surprisingly uncomfortable. When I lie down, each tufted button digs into my back. I sit up, and that’s not so nice either…. It kind of feels like I’m straddling a bucket of golf balls. But so what? It’s still exquisite and I must make it mine. “Or, um, we can put it against the wall and not really sit on it. We could just admire it and use it for company. Maybe once in a while I’d pose on it and eat a peeled grape or something? You really wouldn’t want to sit on a couch this beautiful every day.”
    “Let me get this straight…. You advocate we trade our like-new and incredibly comfortable down sofa for one we can’t use to impress people we don’t know?”
    “Handcrafted!” I bleat, mesmerized by the thought of me supine, sipping a dirty martini and entertaining my haute couture minions.
    The salesman chortles at us. “You married couples are all alike. She wants style, he wants substance.”
    “We’re not married,” I reply.
    “And we never will be if we spend”—Fletch pauses to pick up the price tag—“almost seven thousand dollars!” He clutches his heart in what I think is mock terror. Turning to the salesman he says, “Please excuse us for a moment.” He waits while the salesman sails away in a really yummy pair of buckskin Kenneth Cole loafers.
    “Jen, seriously, no. Listen to me, N-O. No, no, no, no, no. There is no way in hell I’m paying for a couch I’m not allowed to sit on. Absolutely not. I’m putting my foot down. Completely out of the question. Get it out of your mind.”
    “But why not?” I whine.
    “Because we could buy a used car for the same price.”
    I’ll admit he’s got me there. But what of my minions? No self-respecting minion is going to kneel at the foot of a khaki canvas chain store divan.
    “Fine! Then…then…then…I’ll buy it myself! I don’t need YOUR money!” I say, a bit louder than intended.
    “How? You have no room left on your Visa, you destroyed your credit rating with your ‘They don’t really expect me to pay in full each month’ American Express experiment, and you spend all your cash shopping during your lunch break.”
    “I’ll economize. I’ll stop taking cabs to work,” I pledge.
    “Ha! You were the one who said, ‘The thing about mass transportation is it transports the masses.’ You won’t last five seconds on the el, Your Majesty.”
    “Then I’ll ride the bus. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” As we retreat from the store, I call over my shoulder to the salesman, “Remember us—we WILL be back.”

    Public transportation doesn’t quite work out as planned. To save a thirty-cent transfer, I walk up Michigan Avenue to catch the express bus to Bucktown just past Neiman Marcus. Inevitably I need change, so I end up stepping inside to buy something little. Like a pair of trouser socks.
    Or a wee handbag.
    Or a five-carat white topaz ring.
    Riding the bus has been a bit of a false economy.
    I guess it’s time for Plan B: Make More