Citizen Girl

by Emma McLaughlin

Product Description Another biting satire from Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, Authors of the #1 New York Times Bestseller The Nanny Diaries.Working in a world where a college degree qualifies her to make photocopies and color-coordinate file folders, twenty-four year old Girl is struggling to keep up with the essential trinity of food, shelter, and student loans. So when she finally lands the job of her dreams she ignores her misgivings and concentrates on getting the job done...whatever that may be. Sharply observed and devastatingly funny, Citizen Girl captures what it means to be young and female in the new economy. A personal glimpse into an impersonal world, Citizen Girl is edgy and heartfelt, an entertaining story that is startlingly relevant. Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved. Citizen GirlBy Emma McLaughlinSimon & SchusterCopyright © 2004Emma McLaughlinAll right reserved.ISBN: 9780743538534Chapter One: Doris Mindfuck The ladies' room door squeaks open and I stop breathing, jerking my feet up on the toilet seat lid in an effort to work through my lunch hour in solitude. Rubber soles scuff along the honeycomb tiles as I bend to inch the remains of my lunch out of view, but my pen betrays me, rolling brazenly out of my lap and onto the warped floor. "Who's in here?" my boss, Doris, shouts over the din of sweatshop sewing machines whirring up the air shaft. I consider not responding -- maybe she'll think the pipes are now leaking not only asbestos but pens. "Hello-o?" She knocks once on the last stall door before rattling it forcefully. Her tightly permed gray curls appear below me. "Oh, Girl, it's you." I will a cheery smile. "You have your period again, don't you?" She stares up disdainfully as she turns a deep red from her inverted stance. "You know, Girl" -- she takes in my research materials on the floor -- "I've provided you with a perfectly good desk." "Yes, thank you..." I try to dislodge my crossed legs without stepping on her face. "I was just taking advantage of the quiet to finish my presentation for the conference." I unlatch the door, and she abruptly shoves it in toward me, spraying the cup of coffee I'd balanced on the toilet-paper dispenser onto my coat. My new coat. She arches her eyebrows over her multicolored Fimo clay bifocals. "You're a mess," she pronounces. "You really should make your lunch at home and bring it with you. You're not managing your finances very well if you buy those expensive sandwiches every day. But I guess that'd mean you'd actually have to get out of bed on time." She remains squarely in the stall doorway, indicating that I owe her an explanation. "I should," I say with a nod, collecting the offending sandwich wrappers, along with my files, from the floor. She folds her arms across her ample chest and continues to stare me down. Before I can determine how to atone, the bathroom door squeaks open again, and Pam, deputy director of the Center for Equity in Community, waddles in. "Oh, Doris, there you are." She approaches, hulking from side to side like a bloated John Wayne. "I'm heading uptown for that meeting on the Youth Center rally, and if it's anything like last week's, I'm going to be there till dinner -- " "Those. Are. Fantastic." Doris thrusts her pointer finger at Pam's purple clogs, which match her bright purple hemp jumper and the dark purple African lariat she has ambitiously combined with lilac Mardi Gras beads. Had an eggplant been available in her kitchen, she'd have donned it as a hat. "Well, I saw Odetta's green ones, so I asked for a pair from Santa, but you know I'm still hunting for those." Pam gestures to Doris's black Nubuck booties. "I'll never tell," Doris says coyly, turning her ankle. Doris's hemp and Nubuck ensembles are famously all-black, giving her a cosmopolitan air amidst the Center's menopausal sea of the waistband-and-ironing-board adverse. "I'm just going to -- " I point to the sink by the door and

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