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 Page A
Authors: Jen Lancaster
Money.
Courtney sashays up to my desk with a giant smile on her face, waving what looks like an MNOW contract. MNOW is the abbreviation for one of the products I manage. Once I tried to list all the acronyms we use here and I gave up around seventy-six. Alphabet soup has nothing on us.
“Guess what, guess what, guess what!!” she shrieks, doing a small victory dance.
“You sold an MNOW?” I correctly surmise. “Congratulations, Court! Well done.” Woo-hoo! That commission is going straight into the couch kitty.
Courtney is the only account executive who moves my line without major hand-holding. In theory, my AEs should sell to clients, and I support the effort by creating marketing tools, training, strategy, and giving the occasional presentation, but it never shakes out that way. The last time Retard-y Arty sold an MNOW, I uncovered the lead, scheduled the appointment, conducted the meeting, did the follow-up, drafted the contract, and closed the deal. Yet he still paraded around the office exclaiming, “I made a sale!” 38
Courtney hands me the signed agreement with a flourish and says, “Check it out.”
I scan the contract for the project details. “Let’s see, client is Wake-Hammond…nicely done! Once your other clients hear W-H uses the MNOW, they’ll want it, too. OK…MNOW needs to be live by August first…uh-huh, I’ll get the technicians on this immediately…. They expect to have around one thousand users…a little bigger audience than usual, but certainly within our parameters…and we’ll bill out at $70,000.”
I hold the contract up to my eyes and it still looks like it says “$70,000.” Whoa, I’m seeing extra zeroes. Aren’t I too young to be going farsighted? Am I going to have to get those ugly half-glasses that hang on a gold chain? And start doing needlepoint? And complaining about my bunions and no-account grandchildren who never call their nana? I hold the paper out at arm’s length, and although it’s blurry, the number doesn’t change. Yes, I definitely see “$70,000,” which is totally wrong, but thank God, I don’t need bifocals.
“Hey, Courtney? You have a typo here. These cost $7,000.”
“No, that’s right. They have one thousand users, so I took one thousand times the selling price,” she explains.
“Does no one listen to me when I do product training? We went over pricing two days ago. MNOWs don’t have a per-user cost, remember? We charge a flat $7,000.”
“Yes, but if they weren’t willing to pay $70,000, then they wouldn’t have signed the contract,” she argues.
It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying. “You knew you overcharged them?”
“You said in our training session there’s no margin on this product. W-H said they always paid a per-user fee so that’s how I billed them. Now at least we’re making a reasonable profit.”
I quickly multiply my commission. Holy cats, I could buy my couch TOMORROW with a sale like this! Let’s see, it would take a couple of months to build it and maybe a few weeks to ship the piece, so I estimate I could be eating peeled grapes from the comfort and elegance of my prize possession by late August! That would give me enough time to make stylish new friends and buy cool new martini glasses and take tango lessons and—oh, wait. Hold the phone.
I can’t do this.
I can’t willingly bilk a 900 percent profit from a client. It’s wrong. God knows I want the commission, but I just can’t do it. All of a sudden, I’m a kid again, and my dad is taking bids to build his company’s new warehouse in Indiana. He’s back from his business trip, disgusted a shady developer offered him a 10 percent kickback on all construction costs. Although he stands to gain about $400K, he won’t even consider it. Dreaming of ponies with braided manes and Barbie dream homes with built-in swimming pools, I tell my father he’s crazy for not taking the offer. Big Daddy replies, “Jennifer, at the end of the
Courtney sashays up to my desk with a giant smile on her face, waving what looks like an MNOW contract. MNOW is the abbreviation for one of the products I manage. Once I tried to list all the acronyms we use here and I gave up around seventy-six. Alphabet soup has nothing on us.
“Guess what, guess what, guess what!!” she shrieks, doing a small victory dance.
“You sold an MNOW?” I correctly surmise. “Congratulations, Court! Well done.” Woo-hoo! That commission is going straight into the couch kitty.
Courtney is the only account executive who moves my line without major hand-holding. In theory, my AEs should sell to clients, and I support the effort by creating marketing tools, training, strategy, and giving the occasional presentation, but it never shakes out that way. The last time Retard-y Arty sold an MNOW, I uncovered the lead, scheduled the appointment, conducted the meeting, did the follow-up, drafted the contract, and closed the deal. Yet he still paraded around the office exclaiming, “I made a sale!” 38
Courtney hands me the signed agreement with a flourish and says, “Check it out.”
I scan the contract for the project details. “Let’s see, client is Wake-Hammond…nicely done! Once your other clients hear W-H uses the MNOW, they’ll want it, too. OK…MNOW needs to be live by August first…uh-huh, I’ll get the technicians on this immediately…. They expect to have around one thousand users…a little bigger audience than usual, but certainly within our parameters…and we’ll bill out at $70,000.”
I hold the contract up to my eyes and it still looks like it says “$70,000.” Whoa, I’m seeing extra zeroes. Aren’t I too young to be going farsighted? Am I going to have to get those ugly half-glasses that hang on a gold chain? And start doing needlepoint? And complaining about my bunions and no-account grandchildren who never call their nana? I hold the paper out at arm’s length, and although it’s blurry, the number doesn’t change. Yes, I definitely see “$70,000,” which is totally wrong, but thank God, I don’t need bifocals.
“Hey, Courtney? You have a typo here. These cost $7,000.”
“No, that’s right. They have one thousand users, so I took one thousand times the selling price,” she explains.
“Does no one listen to me when I do product training? We went over pricing two days ago. MNOWs don’t have a per-user cost, remember? We charge a flat $7,000.”
“Yes, but if they weren’t willing to pay $70,000, then they wouldn’t have signed the contract,” she argues.
It takes me a moment to process what she’s saying. “You knew you overcharged them?”
“You said in our training session there’s no margin on this product. W-H said they always paid a per-user fee so that’s how I billed them. Now at least we’re making a reasonable profit.”
I quickly multiply my commission. Holy cats, I could buy my couch TOMORROW with a sale like this! Let’s see, it would take a couple of months to build it and maybe a few weeks to ship the piece, so I estimate I could be eating peeled grapes from the comfort and elegance of my prize possession by late August! That would give me enough time to make stylish new friends and buy cool new martini glasses and take tango lessons and—oh, wait. Hold the phone.
I can’t do this.
I can’t willingly bilk a 900 percent profit from a client. It’s wrong. God knows I want the commission, but I just can’t do it. All of a sudden, I’m a kid again, and my dad is taking bids to build his company’s new warehouse in Indiana. He’s back from his business trip, disgusted a shady developer offered him a 10 percent kickback on all construction costs. Although he stands to gain about $400K, he won’t even consider it. Dreaming of ponies with braided manes and Barbie dream homes with built-in swimming pools, I tell my father he’s crazy for not taking the offer. Big Daddy replies, “Jennifer, at the end of the
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