Loser Gets A Life

And here we are again

2006-07-19T08:46:00.000-07:00

I think I may be back at square one. I really don't know what my problem is.

I've been doing this copy editing thing about 7 months. It's OK. I know I'm not really good at design, but I can follow the rules and get my pages out on time. But I knew when I took this job that I didn't have a long career in this end of the journalism field. I thought I could do it for a few years and improve enough to work somewhere that doesn't pay as shitty as this place. That's practically what I was told to do at my interview, which gives you an idea of how much I'm valued here.

And of course, I knew that as a copy editor, I would work night hours. I always thought copy editors were compensated beyond their reporting colleagues because of the effect working nights has on one's life. Not here. I had to fight for the measley wage I'm on and was made to feel greedy. Night differential? Forget it. That's for the evil union papers.

I actually have a home life now. I want to spend time there with the person and pets that I love. Again, I know this is greedy and selfish on my part. But I feel like my life is passing me by. I have to take vacation days to go places on Saturday. You know, like to a wedding. That's why people have weddings on Saturdays, because that way they aren't asking anyone to take off work.

I understand this is an important job and someone has to do it. Today. But tomorrow this job will be obsolete. Plus it sucks and I can't stand it anymore.

I applied to be a reporter and I think I am quietly being told to go fuck myself. I don't think management likes me. Maybe my work ethic has slid a lot in the last few months. And I think they'd rather see how long they can bend me over before I quit instead of moving me somewhere I might do better. What the fuck is this paper going to do when all the people who have been there 20+ years retire? It will happen. It's happening now. They're going to have to hire more people and the only people willing to work for what they pay are people right out of college. All the young people seem to come and go quickly from this place. I think they have no interest in keeping us.

But I can't help feeling like a piece of shit for wanting to quit at the exact same stage as I quit my last two jobs. Why should I stay? I guess the only reason is to make my resume look a little better.

The problem is, I can't just try to get a reporting job at another paper. I am committed to living here at least a few more years. I have a house and a shitty ARM and a significant other who wants to finish college before leaving his job. And anyway, I like it here and see no reason to leave at the moment. I hate that about journalism, you always have to move to advance your career. What would that mean for the rest of my life? Should I just keep asking the person who will soon be my husband to just follow me all over the country pursuing jobs that pay half as much as his that I will hate at the end of 8 months? It's ridiculous.

Maybe if the field wanted to attract and keep good people, they should stop fucking them up the ass. Quit asking honest, hard-working people to screw over their own families for the sheer joy of working at a newspaper. Get over yourselves. It ain't that great.

I know newspapers are losing money now, but these crappy wages and hours and being treated like you're lucky to be working have been going on for a long time. I really think people just accept that as a hazard of the trade when they get into the business. There is no reason why. Trust me, the people who run the company that own your newspaper are living it up at your expense. While you shit yourself for $13 an hour they are laughing all the way to the bank and don't give a fuck about "community news" or anything else they call a priority. They are no different than any other corporate entity except that they pay far less.

I understand that the nature of a newspaper requires more night and weekend work than working in the accounts payable department at the widget company. But we all know there are newspapers with a culture of unclocked overtime right under the nose of the people in charge, and it thrives unchecked. The newspaper runs on the backs of the lowest-paid people there. All I'm saying is, if person A has been out of college two years and works 8 am to 5 pm typing up briefs, and person B has been out of college two years and works 5 pm to 1 am designing 10 pages, I think person B should be compensated better.

The point of this rant is that I don't know if I even want this fucking reporter job. Why bother? Why keep fucking myself over 900 different ways? Why not go work for someone who pays me a living wage and actually cares whether I stay or go?

Because I have guilt attacking me from all directions. Some of the management at my paper have been really nice to me. But I'm so naive I don't know when they're blowing smoke up my ass. I am given special projects, but is that because they think I'm a valuable employee or a sucker? And what of all the people at school who helped me pursue this career? I feel like I owe them something, but I don't know what.

I have no idea what I want to do. I'm just tired of feeling screwed over. Every time I've gotten one ounce of satisfaction from a newspaper, it's quickly followed by hearing about how much better some dumbfuck is doing at a dumbfuck job. Don't I deserve to be as happy as that dumbfuck? The satisfaction of winning some award or writing an article some people really enjoyed pales in comparison to the joy of knowing that I get to spend every night with someone I love, that I have the freedom to go see my friends. Walking my dog alone is more satisfying than scooping the paper across town.

Maybe I'm getting old but I'm again just feeling like I'm not cut out for this.

Also

2006-03-24T13:06:00.000-08:00

I have started with a direct sales company. I am trying to book home parties and it's slow going right now. Most people are shocked that I would even attempt this but I'm telling you I'm going to rock your face! With products.
And I'm still copy editing. I shan't say where, for I don't wish to be fired.
Also, I have a new cat! I might turn this into a cat and dog blog. You'll just have to wait and find out.

New Stuff!

2006-02-27T13:29:00.001-08:00

I got a job at a newspaper. I am a sellout. But it's going well (copy editing, not reporting).

I bought a house. The bf and I moved into a rental about 6 months ago and adopted a puggle. Tomorrow we close on a house we actually own.

I found out which famous Eastern alum I am most like:

Congratulations, you are CALLI COX. You lived on

the edge and made no apologies for it. Men

and women envied you, wanted you or hated

you. Your exploits at Eastern made Larry

Flint proud.

Which famous EIU student are you most like?
brought to you by Quizilla

To bring you up to speed

2005-08-23T12:44:00.000-07:00

Yeah, it's been a while. We all have our droughts.

I haven't posted for a number of reasons. The first is that the job I am at makes me nervous (yes, the stupid ass temp job). I am scared to screw around at work big time. E-mail sites are blocked and I am walled away in a cubicle surrounded by male researchers who only seem able to cast disapproving looks my way.

Now I've never mentioned here where this place is or what their business is (nor will I ever, despite the fact that its astonishing boringness could be mined for some great my-life-sure-blows jokes). But the idea of getting caught blogging about it weighs on me so much, maybe because, like the filthy liar I am, I pretend so much to enjoy it.

The other reason is a happy reason. I met somebody and fell in love and we like to spend lots of time together gazing into each other's eyes and generally being silly. This is delightfully out of character for me and tremendously exciting and I only like to interrupt it for my friends, family and parakeet, and this blog is really not that important to me.

But it has come to my attention that a few my more long-distance homies use this as an easy way to keep up with new developments (which is sweet of them, since I can be a really shitty friend when it comes to keeping in touch). Plus I think once I get the ball rolling it'll be easier to update.

So here's what I do. Every day, I send training materials to people, post their badly-written and badly-designed shit on the company intranet and record these and other activities (including how much time I spend doing each activity) in a series of databases. That's all, folks.

As our president would say, mission accomplished

2005-06-29T12:16:00.000-07:00

And in much the same fashion, this ejaculation is probably premature. But nevertheless, I have a 75 percent real job.

Real points

* Pays living wage (i.e. more than I made as a reporter)
* Involves a desk of my own and, possibly, a nameplate for the outside of my cubicle
* Does not involve scrubbing a public toilet, unlike my current "job"
* Could, in some way, lead to health insurance, braces, a haircut and an IPASS.
* Secret built-in promotion
* Free pens
* A lunch bell (unsure whether to file this under real or unreal)

Unreal points

* I am technically a temp
* I have absolutely no job security whatsoever, because I am technically a temp

But you know, we roll with the punches here at Loser Gets a Life. And toward the goal of getting a social life, I am making some progress. Once I have successfully disentangled myself from the home improvement hole, I will have weekends free to come see you and your hot sister (brother? Whatever.)

I also now have 14 percent more dignity!

I began training today and did loads of repetitive copy/paste/delete/transcribe crapola which is supposedly only a fraction of my job. But when someone who contracts with us popped in, the girl training me introduced my as her "backup." I'm sorry, but somebody in charge needs to enlighten her. She is not Mariah, I ain't the bitch's backup. My job title invokes the word "coordinator," and temp or no temp this irritatingly young professional with the conch piercing is done mopping shit.

That sounds sassy but if I'm going to climb out of this piss-hole I have to start asserting my own worth.

2005-06-22T15:21:00.000-07:00

I may have judged Jilly, my account manager at the temp agency, a little harshly.

Yesterday she called me at 10 a.m. Predictably, I was in the throes of a soul-crushing headache and still lying in bed with a can of Pepsi pressed to my forehead. For once, this was not a result of what Alka-Seltzer refers to as "food and drink indiscretions" although I had dined on Coronas and chile relleno night before.

She told me a company was looking for someone to document-manage: basically proofreading contacts and streamlining the process of sending shit to people, blah-de-blah. You may think to yourself, my God that sounds boring. But that is exactly the point, friends. After having my innocence ripped from me by a brief career in watching firefighters pry bloody bodies from the wreckage of cars and receiving love letters from convicted sex offenders, I long for the boredom of being a human spellchecker and collating machine. And at nearly $12 an hour, the price is so, so right.

So I told her to go ahead and talk me up to these folks. She called the same day to tell me they were interested. That was yesterday. I interviewed this morning and may know tomorrow whether I got the job.

I had been pretty frantic up to this point, although you wouldn't be able to tell that from this blog. I still hadn't heard back from the makeup counter people and had planned on calling them nearly two weeks ago. But then I went to my next-door-neighbor's high school graduation party and who was there? Yes, my dear friend Open Bar.

The bounty of this bar was awe-inspiring. Ketel One, Bombay Sapphire, a gallon jar of olives promising many dirty martinis and its former inhabitants, stuffed with blue cheese and waiting to become soaked with vodka. (moan)

Add to this that I didn't have to worry about how I was getting home, and that made for more shitass drunkenness than I have indulged in in quite some time (cashiering doesn't exactly give a person with a $250 car payment much booze money).

Well, long story short, evidence indicated that I had finished a pretty rough vomit and somehow faceplanted on the bathroom floor, cutting the shit out of my lip inside and out. I woke up later on the pullout bed on a bloodsoaked pillow with a mysteriously wet T-shirt sleeve. I explored the damage with my tongue: I had miraculously spared all of my teeth, but cut a hole the size of a tic tac on the interior of my now very swollen lower lip. I just thanked the good Lord that I hadn't yet scored dental insurance and had braces applied.

Sparkling personality aside, I wasn't going to win over someone deciding whether I should man a makeup counter with that monstrosity on my already-mediocre face (I don't have a self-image problem, but I'm not the kind of person who naturally gets pumped for makeup tips, so to speak). So I haven't called.

I'm having all these fantasies about having weekends off and getting paid enough to do things. Watch for me coming to a town near you. And cross your fingers.

2005-06-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

This is a mighty fine explanation of why people need to quit bitching every time they act as consumers.

This whole cashiering thing does not pay well. I knew this going into it, and shockingly, it does pay better than my waitressing job. However, it was not to be my only job.

Ideally, I should have some sort of mindless data-entry, phone answering, smiley fuck day job now. I signed up with a temp agency about two months ago. My "account manager" is a bubbly 20-year-old we'll call Jilly who likes to "touch base" and "match [me] with job opportunities."

I tried to explain to Jilly that all I want from her is a temp job that pays $9+ an hour and is full time, Monday through Friday, nine to five, clerical. That to me sounds like temping in a nutshell, but what the fuck do I know?

Not to toot my own horn, but I don't know how many people in this relatively small metro area are signed up with this temp agency with a journalism degree, computer literacy, ability to type, customer service experience, at least three blazers and a goddamn working car. I think that puts me in a pretty small group. But apparently I am unqualified for any of their highly demanding letter-writing and shit-filing jobs.

Here is a typical phone interaction with Jilly.

PerennialFailure: Hello?
Jilly: Hi! Is (PerennialFailure) there?
PF: This is she. [It's my fucking cell phone. Who else would answer?]
J: Hi! This is Jilly from Shitass Temp Hole. [A fact I had already gathered, because as discussed, as I told Jilly, as one might gather from the fact that it is a long distance number, she is calling me on my cell phone.] Are you still looking for work?
PF: I am still looking for temporary clerical work during the day, yes.
J: OK, well I have a job possibility that may be a match for you here. It's temp-to-hire, in (a city that is in the next state), at a mailroom for a slaughterhouse, some clerical, some janitorial, a little bit of sausage casing. It's from 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. and you need to wear a suit. What do you think? [All of this is spoken the way an idiot speaks to someone who does not understand English.]
PF: [Ever hopeful.] What does it pay?
J: Seven dollars per hour.
PF: I make more than that at (home improvement behemoth).
J: Well, would you like me to send them a resume?
PF: Yes please.

One of the other girls that works there, lets call her Wanda, is less ridiculous but calls me with jobs that are even more ass-out. Such as, serving cafeteria-style banquets. At 5 a.m. Tomorrow. For $7 an hour and no tips. Thanks but no.

2005-06-01T10:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday's link has been fixed.

This sums it up better than I could

2005-05-31T12:44:00.000-07:00

Enjoy.

Things I would like to say to customers

2005-05-31T07:35:00.000-07:00

1) Like I give a fuck.
2) Wow, I thought they stopped selling that perfume 10 years ago.
3) Could you please go now?
4) What job exists that will pay someone as stupid as you so much money, and are they hiring?
5) I just farted.
6) You'd be amazed what brushing your teeth will do for their appearance.
7) I'm sorry you got sent all over the store. Actually, no I'm not, we all thought it would be funny and wanted to see if you'd cry.
8) You should know upfront that I don't know where anything in the store is or what it does. Even the toilets.
9) That's gonna be one ugly baby (to pregnant women and their deformed husbands/boyfriends).
10) If I had as much power to change things at this store as you seem to believe, I wouldn't be standing here listening to you bitch right now.
11) I have no idea what you're talking about.
12) Please look away while I memorize your credit card number.
13) Is the rest of your house as ugly as the shit you bought today?
14) Is $1.50 worth bitch-fighting me?
15) I think there's a dead rat in your blowout mall bangs.

I also interviewed at a department store for a makeup counter job. A different mall store than the one with the walkie-talkie lady. It was an actual full interview, and the lady who interviewed me was refreshingly honest. She seemed impressed with my performance and promised me a second interview with a lady whose name now escapes me.
It may be more trying than my current job, which isn't really as bad as I make it out to be, and should pay more. I was thinking about keeping them both but I don't know whether that would result in death (two jobs where I'm on my feet all day). I have to remind myself that when I was a reporter I usually worked 50 hours a week at a much harder job, so 60 at two relatively unchallenging jobs ought to be manageable.

The whole temping thing is basically in the can. I keep getting calls from my diet-pill-addicted account manager telling me about temp-to-hire jobs in Iowa that pay $8 an hour. I'm sorry, but what is the point of that? I'll stay on the list or whatever and see if anything good pops up but I'm thinking I'll need to try a different avenue.

I'm adjusting a little better to the state of things. I keep thinking about how small my life seems now, but maybe that's what I need. A year of blending in and being part of the teeming mass.

I think also that the proliferation of these types of blogs (educated people working odd jobs) suggests a little something disturbing about our economy. Part of it is choice, yes, to abstain from certain lines of work. But part of it is also that we're educating people with the promise that that education is their route to gainful employment. I believe in education for the sake of education as a concept, but like stay-at-home parenting, this type of existence has become impossible to afford. But what else is new.

I'm trying not to get too worked up about my financial situation. It's bad, bad to the tune of 2/3 of my meager check was eaten by NSF fees upon entering my bank account, leaving a balance that is $100 short of my car payment. Plus my other bills. I just have to stick with it I guess, and try to see a light at the end of the tunnel.

Some things I'd like to share

2005-05-20T09:57:00.000-07:00

Thing #1

Today I woke up with a splotch on the very front and center of my neck. I think it's a spider bite because my parents' house is in the Midwest equivalent of a totally ungoverned forest and plays host to an array of furry, fanged, drooling spiders. In addition, my tonsils and lymph nodes are uncomfortably swollen and I have a nasty taste in the back of my mouth that so far is uncured by tooth-brushing, coffee and tuna, in that order. So if I die, I just wanna say, thanks for reading.

Thing #2

I'm going to treat us all to a list of what I discovered while cleaning my car

18 empty Coke cans
Almost a whole granola bar
2 files documenting grants for five years at the place where I volunteer
A bill for Planned Parenthood that lists, individually, every STD for which I was screened
3 pairs of shoes (sneakers, heels and bedroom slippers)
Enough McDonalds particles to craft a whole Double Cheeseburger
Receipts from the last 150 times I put gas in my car
A $12 mug I forgot I was missing

And to think, I just cleaned it out when I moved in March.

Thing #3

One day, when I get a digital camera, I'm going to post pictures of my parakeet.

2005-05-19T20:47:00.000-07:00

And some people are just assholes.
Let me tell you something. If you think the world has it out for you, that everyone wants a piece of you, everyone's trying to screw you over, that the citizenry owes you something, that you're the only one who knows anything--YOU ARE WRONG!
If your idea of retail enjoyment involves waltzing in through sliding glass doors with a scowl on your already-unpleasant face, expecting everyone to leap to your service and bitching out everyone you encounter, leave your ass at home. Shop online, use a catalog, just get out mah face.
It simply astonishes me the number of people who cannot apply the context of their own lives to the lives of others. Where anyone works, there is a hierarchy. Each person cannot do every task that must be performed at a place of business. The same is true when you go shopping. Let's say we're talking about, oh, a large home improvement warehouse. In addition to the bewildering variety of lumber we sell is a rotating selection of live plants, 54983478980876 colors of paint and little bits of pipe in every size, shape, material and color on the face of the earth. NO, after two weeks of employment, I DO NOT KNOW THE UPC CODE FOR THIS AND EVERY OTHER ITEM WE SELL. When people learn this, I can almost see the words "illiterate high school dropout" flashing through their minds. And out of pure ego preservation, I casually relate the situation to one I encountered while working at a newspaper. Then the gears start turning again. Wait a minute. Newspaper. Journalism. Degree. College. Better educated than myself. Possibly even in possession of natural intelligence. Usually they grind to a halt right there. I know I shouldn't A) give a shit what our customers think of me, or B) try to prove my self-worth by hinting at my capacity to perhaps have a better job where I wouldn't wear my name on an apron. But it's my only defense mechanism, and if anything has become abundantly clear in the last couple months, it's that I actually do care what people think of me. Nothing short of crippling.
The blinding irony of this is that one of my biggest pet peeves is people who understand exactly what their problem is and don't do anything about it, which is exactly what I'm doing. So I must stop. Somehow.
I guess it stings when people think I'm stupid. I'm used to people not considering me attractive, interesting, exotic, intriguing, a good cook, artistically inclined, etc., but usually I could get them to think I was smart. But when that's ripped away, apparently a gaping wound is exposed. Not pretty.

2005-05-10T09:31:00.000-07:00

The scary reason I have neglected my blog of late:
I am addicted to facebook.
Yes, I'm 23, not in college, not in a position to facebook hotties from class or the bar, etc. etc. but, Lord, how I wish I could.

But anyway, I have also been working. Glory, glory hallelujah, I'm a cashier. My first day, my brain was still in waitress mode, and I rang up $60 pallets of annuals thinking, "I ought to get a pretty good tip from this." Alas, no. For better or for worse, I get paid equally for each hour, regardless of customer traffic.

Ringing people up is pretty much as easy as it looks. What's hard is when I have to travel to the breakroom or another part of the store in my snazzy apron and customers ask me things. It's not that I don't like showing people things or whatever, but I don't know anything about anything we sell, including where it is located. I sent one woman to the wrong aisle and she came back to the returns desk to tell me and anyone within earshot that I sent her to the wrong place, and where the grass fertilizer really was. Well pardon me, if your lazy ass can't walk a few aisles without turning into an unholy bitch, you have bigger problems than I care to hear about.
I want to care about our customers, I really do. But they are so goddamn ridiculous! We've all shopped. Sometimes stuff isn't where you think it is or costs more, etc. GET OVER IT! One woman was close to tears the other day because another cashier rang up some dismal-looking flowers at the wrong price and she had been sent all over the store. Do you want to know the total price difference, this holy grail she had sought from about six employees? About $2.50. For real. I have no money, zero. And even I hemorrage about that much on crap every day. I just can't take these high-maintenance types who track every penny they spend.
I like most of my co-workers. They're relaxed and some are pleasantly silly. One girl, however, is the kind of dumb that belongs in a museum. Not that she isn't very nice, she is. But, well, here's an example. A few days ago, she asked me if her hair looked okay, despite her gray roots. This girl can't be more than 25, but upon closer inspection, she did have some gray hairs. She said she had gotten them since she was in high school, but for some reason it was only the roots that turned gray, not the ends.
Yeah.

2005-05-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, I really enjoyed clicking the Next Blog button at the top of blogspot pages. But now, 90 percent of the blogs are run by a company that posts "resources" on some topic or another.
But I still manage to find plenty that are teenagers recording every thought that flutters through their ADD-addled minds. One girl had this utterly depressing site all about how her boyfriend broke up with her. Dude.

In the spirit of those post-whatever blogs I will say:
Some nights I fall asleep totally sober with my clothes/the lights on. Last night was one of those nights.
I start training at the hardware store today and I still don't have a temp assignment.
I am getting sick. My hand hurts (wtf?), as does my head, and you don't want to know about the rest of me.

I am summoning every ounce of willpower I have to not get depressed about the state of my life. I had a long talk with my parents about it. It's funny, even when we agree we all yell at each other and it sounds like an argument. They literally got mad at me because I felt like I let people down. It was a weird feeling, being yelled at about how I shouldn't try to please anyone but myself. Overall it was good to talk to them, I guess, but it really makes me feel about 10 years behind in my development to have to scream: "You just don't understand!" at my parents.
I believe everything I've said about why I'm doing this, but day to day its hard to tell people no, I'm not a waitress anymore, but yes, I'm now a seasonal cashier. When did I become such a snob? Why do I think there's something wrong with this lifestyle?
I guess the things I do for work now were once a scare tactic employed by teachers, parents and others who should know better: If you don't go to college, you will wear a nametag the rest of your life. And now here I am, and I know I didn't do anything wrong. I did everything I possibly could to avoid this, as far as career preparation goes, but you know, shit happens.
I imagine to anyone over about 27 this blog seems like an agonizingly slow discovery of the obvious. But people my age were never warned this could happen. College was the golden ticket, baby, and if you got that degree everything was going to be peachy. I must have believed that. I think a lot of us did. But it's just one of a matrix of lies that make up the American Dream.

I guess the bright spot right now is that I have an idea for a book that I think could be pretty good, if it turns out I can write a book. We'll see.

Navel-gazing

2005-05-01T15:54:00.000-07:00

I quit the waitressing job today, though I agreed to work tomorrow if needed. Last night we had a band, and the owner anticipated some sort of huge crowd because of it. But because this band A) sucks, and B) has only played like twice before, and also because we never advertise anything, it was just a usual lameass Saturday, but with more mullets. And I dropped a Philly cheese steak.

This week I start my hardware cashier job and hopefully some temping.

I'm toying with another idea though. I'm thinking about trying to find a real job right now. These jobs pay so little that I'm not really getting anywhere financially. If temping+cashiering=no closer to paying down my credit cards, my best bet may be to move to Chicago where I can find a real job. I've looked at CareerBuilder.com and sent out some resumes for jobs looking for communications-types. It pays so much more than journalism it's ridiculous. Obviously my cost of living would be higher, but it's hard to say now what's the better route, financially.
Maybe what I should do, what we all should do, is list our wants. It seems like that's what we are always trying to reconcile, what do I want? How do I get it? Is this it? Does it exist? And then trying to fit that in among our needs and our responsibilities to others.
What I want (ideally)
1. A job that doesn't compromise my integrity/beliefs
2. A comfortable standard of living
3. To live reasonably close to friends and family
4. To improve my credit

What I need
1. A job that covers all of my expenses with some room for fun
2. Insurance/benefits
3. A safe, comfortable place to live

Obligations to others
1. Take over the bills my parents are still paying
2. Various time commitments to friends and family

That seems to be it. But so much more factors in to how this will actually play out.
Other things I, and many people, want include acceptance, feeling appreciated, feeling useful, being challenged, fun people to be around and some other things I won't list on this family blog. It all seems so obvious now that I look at it in black and white but somehow it's just out of reach.

What we've termed "quarterlife crisis"

2005-04-29T16:20:00.000-07:00

Today was the first actual busy day at the bar. On Monday, I split four tables with another waitress, so naturally today I worked alone when the owner knew ahead of time that we had a 20-top of 30something women, which are perhaps my least favorite customers. (I was a women's studies minor, I subscribed to Bitch, get off my ass). When they come in alone they will always get burgers and fries, but when a whole parade of them marches in you can count on 20 spinach salads with fat free ranch, and specified lemons for each water. I swear women try harder to look like they're dieting in front of one another than they even do with men. There's a lawyer across the street who has been meeting the same girl at the bar every day for a week or so now and yesterday she ordered a pork tenderloin as big as her head (I live dangerously close to Iowa). I wanted to shake her hand.
To be fair, the bartender and the owner tackled the bigass table while I juggled the dozen or so smaller ones that arrived NONSTOP from 11 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. I know I shouldn't bitch because it's money momma needs for a haircut and a car payment (also knowm as my one-stop credit shop).
I dealt with a little of everyone today: a man who complained that his ketchup was too thin, a hatchet-faced man who felt the need to tell me "we're in kind of a hurry," a child molester in a Hawaiian shirt.
We get a lot of suits because we're downtown and most of them are very polite, but occasionally you'll get one who talks to you like you were born to lick his smelly anus. Thar occurred today when, for the first time, a dickwad came in who was pretentious enough to ask for the portobello burger with no bun ("I'm on Atkins," he tells me.) He says "Tell you what..can I just get an extra portobello mushroom with that? You can do that, can't you? Thanks." Returns to conversation with woman who will pay for both meals. Yeah, I can do that, motherfucker, but it will cost you. He also tried to pull the gender assumption card when I started handing him the iced tea and her the diet Pepsi (someone else had taken their drink order). The fact is, like most humans, I have two hands. I put the pop in one and the tea in the other and walked over to their table, then ASKED whose fucking beverage was whose. "Bet you thought it was the other way around!" What goddamn difference does it make to me? The point is I touched both of your straws with my dirty (ketchup, bleach, snot, sweat) hands. And those mushrooms grow in the dumpster. Fuck you.

I have a deep, clawing fear of my life becoming a cliche, but sometimes it seems so unavoidable. Maybe because our lives can only truly follow a handful of paths and we've thought of names for all of them.
My previous cliche was the cliche of natural privileged ascent. The suburbs-college-job-living alone and being bored all the time ladder that we were all taught to climb, well on my way to a lot less partying overall and a lonely death in 50-60 years.
I am now in the cliche of the quarterlife crisis, a concept documented by more famous 20-somethings than myself (i.e. John Mayer and "Scrubs" star Zach Braff, who wrote/directed Garden State, as we all know, the seminal Gen Y film). But something tells me both of those individuals are a bit less conflicted than they were when they wrote about their good intentions, self-preservation insticts and libido clashing in a storm of ambivalence, giving rise to their respective artistic endeavors. I think they are now both very successful, fulfilled individuals, comfortable in lives that include great purpose and lots of people wanting to fuck them.
Originally I wanted my life to have meaning. I wanted a job that I believed in, that I could love because I knew I was making the world a better place, even if it was hard sometimes and stressed me out a lot. I thought I had found that in journalism but it turned out I hadn't. I don't hate journalism or those who choose to stay with it. But I didn't have that feeling working at a newspaper for a lot of reasons. Part of the problem was also the toll my work was taking on my mental health. Sometimes, when you report the news, you get exposed to a lot of things that everyday people routinely choose to ignore if only to spare themselves the pain of knowing what really happens to other people. But reporters don't have that privilege. If cars crash into each other, if a house burns down, if a dead body washes up in a creek, I have to get in my car and drive to it, interview everyone connected to it, then distill a tragedy that upturned countless lives into 500-700 words. The whole process is not only counterintuitive, but it sometimes leaves you feeling like the whole weight of human sadness and suffering is swallowing you.
Anyway...the point is I don't know what I want anymore. Recently, two job opportunities have manifested themselves and they are both in the vein of marketing/PR which is rife with the very same moral bankruptcy I was trying to escape when I left journalism. I don't want to be useless, but sometimes it seems a better fit than trying to find a job I love and leaving it in a year, feeling betrayed by the system.
Anyone who has found their way out of a similar black hole is welcome to comment.
Coming soon: e-mail the Perennial Failure!

Fuk dis

2005-04-27T18:29:00.000-07:00

I've avoided blogging for a while because I've been feeling a little shitty about where my life is lately. I'm trying to keep it light, for my sake and for the sake of whoever reads it. Zoloft is a bit pricey without health insurance, so I'm trying to duplicate the effect with some self-deprecating (and other-people-deprecating) humor.
But I know this looks pathetic. I know exactly what it looks like because I've been that person. I've been the person who looks at someone ringing up light fixtures or mopping up some asshole customer's mess at a restaurant and felt sorry for them. Wondered how I was lucky enough to be able to avoid such a life.
I'm an atheist. I don't believe in anything that remotely relates to fate or things happening for a reason. I think I got to go to college because of my parents' chemical stew, the inheriting of their relative intelligence and the effect of their relative intelligence on my upbringing. That's it folks. I'm not a better person than the girl who will do nothing all her life than what I'm doing now and neither is anyone else. It's all a crap shoot and I was winning for a long time. I had it fucking good throughout college. I got the internships I wanted, made great connections, won a few awards and worked my way up the student press hierarchy. All my shit was coming up roses and now it looks like its in the can.
But I have to remember it isn't, not by a long shot. I'll always have my degree and my skills. I can do a lot of things well. But it's a fucked up economy for one thing; that combined with low cash flow and a few bad financial decisions on my part have brought me to this particular station in life. I'm trying my goddamn best get on my feet financially, find out what I really want to do and learn to do it. Call it continuing education. But I'm tired of feeling like a bottom feeder. The part of me that looked at people who were doing menial jobs and felt sorry for them needs to die. These people don't want my pity or yours. Let me tell you, they work their asses off. I'm not going to be ashamed to be among them. I'll be the better person in the years to come because of this experience, because I swallowed my pride and did what I had to do to get shit done.
Really, everyone should be so lucky.

Time for the talk

2005-04-20T19:25:00.000-07:00

Yes. The "this is not working out" talk, with the owner of the bar where I work.
Today being my one-week-iversary, I took a moment to reflect on my employment as a waitress. Some thoughts:
1) I make about $15 a day in tips
2) I make about $10 a day in wages
3) I am not making any money
4) A trip to the orthodontist today confirmed beyond all doubts that I do in fact need health insurance
5) I do not have health insurance
6) I am also, technically, out of birth control pills (piss off, I have ovarian cysts)
7) I do, after all, have a college degree and maybe should try again to flex some of its muscle

So while I enjoy the opportunity to wear ketchup and refill 25 salt and pepper shakers every day, I think it's time to break it off.

Tomorrow I'm working a dinner shift, so I think I'll spend part of the morning checking out various temp agencies. I don't really know what to expect but I think it has all the makings of success. Note:
1) The commitment is already removed from the equation
2) I guess that's it really

Mustard follies

2005-04-18T21:13:00.000-07:00

So on Saturday, my first time working a dinner shift, here is what I did:

1) Pulled a gallon plastic jar of smelly mustard out of the fridge, dropped it so that the bottom rim of it hit the floor with enough force to blast the lid completely across the kitchen and spew a river of mustard snaking down the floor, across the side of the garbage can and into a giant box of saltines.

2) Began cutting lemons, took a call from my mother, hung up, thought to myself "Self, it is dangerous to cut lemons and talk on the phone at the same time," then cut my all-American finger open.

3) Gave somebody the wrong change, corrected the error by pulling $10 out of my pocket, was accused of stealing and stiffed on a tip for a $45 bill.

Honestly, though, waitressing is really fun. None of the ethical dilemmas of journalism, but followed each day by roughly the same amount of alcohol.

People are more or less nice and not too bizarre, and most of the people in this town tip decently. But I feel like I can tell when someone is going to give me a crappy tip the minute they walk in the door. When that happens, as it did today with a table of 6, I don't overextend myself. Don't like it? Well then don't eat out if you can't tip, you cheap shit. More on this philosophy at this blog.

A few of the regulars came in today for drinks. Nice guys, but classic pervs. For some reason I wind up having to chat with men like this at all of my jobs, so I managed to handle it pretty well. They talked me into staying for a beer when I clocked out and even sprung for a Jager bomb and some songs on the jukebox. Oldish and creepy they were, but guys my age would sooner take up the unicycle than do stuff like that for a classy young lady such as myself. And these guys didn't expect anything in return, at least not realistically.

I was walking through the mall today and saw a girl about my age helping a woman buy a bracelet. While there are many more thankless tasks on this earth, I briefly felt relieved that I wasn't doing that. I spent a few minutes today trying to help this poor weird guy pick between a burger and a wrap and I wanted to stab him. I don't know what is going to make him happier. I don't live in his stomach. I am happy to fetch him anything on the menu but I don't know how to help a stranger pick things out. I mean part of it was that this dude was so pathetic but part of it is that I can't stand when people agonize over totally inconsequential things. I'm sure there are several menu items any person would find tasty. Just pick one for Christ's sake: it's a bar with burgers and wings. It's not the Bachelor.

Well clearly I'm cranky.

Mmm...working

2005-04-14T19:43:00.000-07:00

Now I'm a waitress, which has its perks.
Serving people isn't all that hard, at least at a cheapish bar in a smallish town. I am having trouble with the whole tray thing, though. It isn't so much the weight as the balance. I imagine its something I'll learn.
Everything was pretty much as I expected, except for one thing. The SQUALOR.
Yesterday, when I started, I was never once asked to wash my hands. I never once witnessed anyone doing it. The soup spoons always look dingy, so we have to serve them already planted in the soup. The lettuce is brown, so we have to cover it with cheese when we make a salad.
Today I saw a nasty bug, though I couldn't be sure it was a roach, near the drink area. I pointed it out to my co-worker. Her response?
"You should have seen the fucker I saw in the cooler last week."
When she and I were rolling silverware, we dropped about a half-dozen knives on the floor. She just wiped them on her shirt and kept rolling. I decided I like her.
The people are really fun. Laid back, friendly, helpful. And the customers are pretty low-maintenance. But because we're downtown, we get a fair number of suits coming in for lunch. If they only knew...
It is kinda cool to work someplace so half-assed. I worked at a suburban ice cream parlor in high school and it was so fascist. This is nice.
More to come.

You must try this

2005-04-10T20:50:00.000-07:00

My Unitarian Jihad name is Mother Mutual Assured Destruction of Appreciative Joy.
Take Unitarian Jihad Name Generator today!
Created with Rum and Monkey's Name Generator Generator.

2005-04-08T11:39:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry this blog looks so fucked up. I swear it is not my fault.

2005-04-08T11:02:00.000-07:00

This morning I interviewed with the home improvement hole. I applied because my dad knows someone who works there and supposedly they're always looking for department managers to enter a training program.
Now you may remember I already got hired somewhere, but I'm playing the field.
So when I applied last week, I had to sit at a computer and fill out the usual info, which was actually nice in a way (easier on the hands). But at the end, they ask you a bunch of questions about stealing from your employer framed in such a way that a really huge asswipe might actually admit it.
What is the total value of items not belonging to you that you have taken from your employer(s)/place of business in the last five years, NOT INCLUDING minor office supplies?
* $0
* $1-$5
* $5-$20
* $20-$50
* $50-$100
* $100+
* Not sure

So really, while the question appears to allow you to choose from a range of options, some seemingly worse than others, you're probably not going to get a phone call unless you say, um, $0!
A similar question follows, asking the total dollar amount of money you have taken from your employer(s)/place(s) of business.

At the interview, we talked about the positions. Now the position my interviewer started in was one of assistant to the department manager which pays way, way more than anything I've interviewed for so far (though still less than the job I quit). But get this--the fucking place opens at 6:30 a.m.! Who needs a garden hose at 6:30 a.m.? Shingles? A shower enclosure? Can't one wait until the sun rises to install new cabinets? The only time I see 6:30 a.m. is coming from the other side.
Honestly, the job sounded like it had a lot of promise in terms of upward mobility, but I am not capable of committing like that. I can't just waltz into a job that admittedly involves heavy lifting, coldness and getting up early and say, yes, one day I want to manage my own store. I'm not committment-phobic, generally, but I know me well enough to know that that may be a recipe for living hell.
My interviewer was pretty cool and saw me squirming. She said I could be a seasonal cashier and then join apply for one of these positions later if I want to. Thanks, think I will.
Then I had to do more of these "How Big a Drug-Addicted Fuckup Are You?" tests. The first was literally a fill-in-the-bubble test about lying and stealing. I understand they have the entirety of the great unwashed applying for jobs here, but seriously. How many goddamn times do I have to say I don't lift from the register? I got to thinking maybe it was one of those tests where they ask you the same question 95784760475086 times and see if your answer changes. I had to answer, also, whether I would fire someone who stole less than $5.
Then there was the computer test about what kind of person I am. Now, I was just interviewed, I think they got a few shots of personality from me, but I have to answer more questions about friendliness and courtesy. The real bitch was, I had already answered all these exact same questions in an online application for another retail giant. There's a company that just processes electronic applications for enormous companies and these two both use it. I briefly thought about asking if we could get my answers from the other company because I was just about sure my answers would be exactly the same.
This thing is brutal. It makes you really question the kind of person you are. Yes, I think it's annoying when people talk all the time. Not everyone, but assholes. I used to work with a girl who would ask herself, loud enough for the entire office to hear, "Now what should I have for dinner? I had Chinese last night. Pizza sounds good." How about a big slice of who gives a fuck? I'm pretty tolerant but I just did not understand why we all had to be included in this decision. It was one we were all facing--why should anyone give a shit about her personal struggle with it? Oh, and one question was "I swear a lot when I argue." I clicked "agree."
Because it's an enormous retail chain, I have two more interviews ahead of me and that much more time to ponder my options and wait for a call from the mall store.

The best part of any interview, I've found, is trying to explain what I used to do. As in the mall store interview, I had to draw parallels to retail sales and customer service because I don't have legitimate retail experience.
Here, we talked a bit more about nutcases coming in. My interviewer said sometimes contractors will show up drunk from lunch break. I found this funny. A hardware store is not someplace I'd think to go drunk in the middle of the day, but what do I know? I told her a little about dealing with meth addicts, and she told a story of a girl who came in barefoot in December to buy 100 yards of tinfoil. Yeah, I think she was jacked. She probably also bought a gross of lightbulbs.
Apparently a lot of people my age come in for beer bong supplies. I'm thinking, why not have beer bong workshops? Shelve funnels and tubing next to each other, then teach ways to enhance them. When I was in college I knew a guy who had some sort of plumbing valve in the middle of his beer bong, which was great for timed release and head reduction.
He actually taught me how to use one, too. The first time I tried to bong a beer, I wound up with literally an entire 16-ounce Keystone in my mouth, which I spit all over the bathroom wall. The guy holding the funnel, after about a 5-second pause, said "OK, I've never seen that before." But that's why you do it in the bathroom, kids.

Gratification

2005-04-07T20:26:00.002-07:00

I arrive at the first important step in finding purpose: I have a job.
I applied at a cute little downtown bar I think in the first hunt. I didn't fill out an application, just wrote my name and dubious qualifications on a piece of paper, then called yesterday.
Well today the owner called back, scheduled an interview, and by 8 p.m. I was hired. She has yet to ask me for proof of American citizenship, but I imagine that's coming.
I still have my hardware store interview and am still waiting to hear from the mall store, but for now I'm at least progressing. I'd like to tack a retail job onto my schedule so we'll see.
Hopefully if the hardware thing isn't a go, it'll at least lend some humorous bits to this increasingly boring blog.

Some progress

2005-04-05T23:22:00.000-07:00

I have another interview!
Friday, 10:30 a.m., the proximate home improvement behemoth. Glory be.

Still waiting on the mall store, may know tomorrow.

Also I'm now volunteering at a GLBT community organization where I was once a "youth participant."

But most of today I spent doing very little productive anything and felt tremendously guilty. Everyone I know is working or in school or somehow bettering themselves and/or the world. I know if I were still working I'd be resentful of me, and while no one has expressed this, I'm sure they feel it to some degree.

I'm also going a little stir crazy. I mean television sucks. You can't blog all the time about nothing. I can't find the book I was going to read. I have no money and no gas in my car.

Being idle just eats away at my ability to task-manage. I set an appointment for days ahead of time and spend the interim wondering if I'll forget to go and leaving myself reminders. I'm careful to schedule everything else around the appointment. This is, of course, ludicrous (ludacris?). When I was a reporter, I had a million appointments all the time, and while I often forget the weekly staff meeting that was always at the same time, I managed to remember the other stuff, and juggle it with whatever shootings, stabbings or meth lab explosions popped up that day. Now I actually think to myself I have a busy week, because I'm volunteering tomorrow for probably all of 3 hours and because I have this one-hour interview on Friday. I keep thinking I should schedule everything (procuring health insurance, finding my student loan bill, etc.) for Thursday. I need help.

I guess I should go to bed.

One step closer

2005-04-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

On Saturday I interviewed at a trendy mall store. I probably wasn't, but I definitely looked like, the oldest person in our group interview.
In my previous job as a newspaper reporter, I was accustomed to people thinking I was still in college, something that still happens. People are always asking me if I'm "home on break." I don't understand how, at the one time I need to look 20-21, I look 35.
The other girls in the interview all had retail experience. We were asked about a time we turned "no" into "yes" and made a sale, and they all had experiences at the ready. Most of them seemed to have worked several retail jobs. To answer that question, I related a tale of a time I got a call from an irate witness in a murder trial, threatening to sue me about her name being "all over this fucking newspaper." I calmly offered her the opportunity to tell me her side of the story, and she did. So far, no lawsuit; not that she had grounds for one anyway but that doesn't stop some people.
That is one skill of mine I can identify but can't market: the ability to talk the insane down from the edge or at least out of my place of business. The receptionist/security people at the newspaper where I worked were expert at getting screaming nutcases to depart the office without incident, but I was often called in when a persistent one was encountered. One favorite was a guy with about nine teeth who walked about 2 miles from the most horrifying neighborhood in town with $2,500 in his pocket. This dude was upset that his friend was in jail for what sounded like the fourth or fifth time and that he was somehow, carlessly, getting her to school every day. He said her bail was $25,000 and the jail folks wouldn't let her walk with the 10 percent he somehow obtained.
Maybe at this point I should stop and answer the question you most surely are asking yourself if you are not one of my reporter friends: what does this person's problem have to do with a newspaper? Shouldn't he speak to the jail commander, the judge or perhaps a lawyer?
The answers: Nothing and yes.
But for those who are insane, broke or both, a newspaper can be judge, jury, detective and attorney for whatever injustice you mistakenly think you have suffered. To this guy's credit, he had at least exhausted all of the avenues except that of seeing a lawyer, which is understandable because talking to us, the jail and the judge was free.
It took me a while to figure out what he wanted me to do about it and came to the usual answer: He wants me to write a Pulitzer-winning expose about the corruption of the local legal system.
If I had a nickel for every time someone called me up to say the cops were targeting them and someone was being paid to ruin their lives, etc. etc. etc., I would not be a goddamn jobless ho begging for a mall job right now.
So I did what I always have to do: explain to him why this was not a story. I explained that judges often decide that certain people, such as 23-year-old mothers who have been arrested for drugs a dozen times, are not allowed to front 10 percent and swing the doors. I explained that the fact that his friend had children did little to distinguish her from the rest of the jail population. I don't mean to be insensitive; I fully believe that this woman's jail time was indeed putting a strain on her family. The problem is, there is nothing particularly uncommon about that, and certainly nothing in this situation to indicate a conspiracy.
You may also wonder how it could be that this man could have $2,500 in cash, which I have never even had in a line of credit or a checking account, and had neither a car nor teeth. Well, where I live, it all boils down to our little friend methamphetamine. That was the whole entire root of this problem: why the woman was in jail, why she had been there many times, why this man had more benjamins than teeth, why he was delusional/hysterical at the office of the freaking local newspaper.
Cops will tell you: you don't fuck with tweakers. Friends, they are correct. But this was one of the many times I was forced to, one of the many occasions that eroded my ability to continue doing what I was doing.
I told the man I was sorry, but if he still felt wronged he was welcome to write a letter to the editor.
It turned out he already had, and he unfurled a second copy which had been balled, until that moment, in a fist clenched so tightly it could probably shatter a gallon jug of Carlo and Rossi.
"It's called 'travesty'I don't know why they ain't run it it ain't discriminatory but it's called 'travesty' and I promise it don't discriminate..." etc., etc.
I asked when he had turned it in, and he said Monday. That day was a Wednesday. I assured him that if he waited a few weeks, he would likely see his letter. That seemed to satisfy him, and by the grace of God he left.
All I can hope now is that this same skill, which I related in far less detail to the store manager, will translate into sales and customer service skills.
The job did sound pretty cool. The manager was very laid back and admitted up front that the job was easy and that it should be among the less important commitments in our lives, which is exactly what I seek. It's part-time though, and starts at minimum wage. Experience can boost your pay but somehow I don't think a college degree will.
Remember children: lies, lies, lies.

In the beginning

2005-03-30T13:16:00.000-08:00

This blog will chronicle my adventures in abandoning the career path I chose at age 15 and striking out on my own (moving back in with my parents).

I studied journalism in college, did the student paper, the internship, the whole nine yards. Then I got a job. Hated it, quit after two weeks. Got another job; liked it much better.

But generally, I just don't think being a newspaper reporter is going to be my thing. So I chucked it again and went home.

Now I'm 23, unemployed and living in my sister's old bedroom. I've been back for about three days and have been doing some job hunting every day.

So far, I've applied at
5 bars
1 brew pub
2 chain restaurants that have bars
2 department stores
1 mall store
2 riverboat casinos (that also have bars)
1 bagel shop
1 home improvement giant

I popped in to one of the department stores today, hoping to score an interview, which, technically, I suppose I did.
I got there about 12:15 and sat for at least 20 minutes while they searched for my application. I'd dropped it off about a week and a half ago, and when the customer service lady told the interview lady, she rolled her eyes and said "That means it could be literally on any manager's desk."
Finally she came back and asked me to fill out another application.
As I was doing so, smiling merrily all the while, I noticed two things. One, these jeans I'm wearing that I thought were in pretty good shape are actually frayed and crusty at the bottom, and more than likely smell like one of the 25 smoke-filled places I've worn them in the three months since I've washed them (I stopped short of sniffing them). Two, on the part of the application where one is to list one's job history in exhaustive detail, a note read in big bold letters: "DO NOT OMIT ANY JOBS."
Well, truth be told, in the elusive first application, I had forgotten to write in my recent two-week job. Since realizing I did that, I've been purposely leaving it off of other applications (how will that affect my ability to mix a red-headed slut, I pray thee?). But now it seemed I was going to be immediately questioned about this history, so I'd better be honest. I filled it out and gave it back to the girl who had previously rolled her eyes.
She was of a certain type. I'm not saying that because I think all people fit neatly into categories...just certain people. Like her.
She had a constant air of frustration about her, of the official variety. The type that says, "I'm simply exhausted because I'm the only person around here who knows anything." She wore a cheap sweater and a black skirt with a walkie-talkie stuffed down the back (lovely).
She glanced over my application and led me into a room with a long table and about 25 chairs, a television with videos laying all around it, and a mountain of boxes and bubble wrap. It seemed beneath the shimmery veneer of the only upscale department store in town lay a dirty secret: the clothes came in boxes.
She asked me why I wanted to work in cosmetics. It was then that I realized all my reasons were stupid: it looked easy, I got to wear a lab coat, the promise of a discount. Instead, I told her I liked make up and liked to put it on my friends. She probably inferred that I do so whilst others in my Girl Scout troop braided hair or had silly string fights. And really, who could blame her?
Then she asked if I had any experience in retail. I told her that in high school, I worked at Osco. This was a job I had for about two months in 1998, but she didn't know that.
"Well, we like our cosmetics people to have a little experience in retail." She then said she'd forward my application to the people in the men's and junior's departments, which were hiring.
And that was it. That was the end of the interview. I think it was about two and a half minutes.
So children, remember, when someone tells you a college degree is your ticket to a fulfilling career, he is no better than a lunatic who rides a rusty bike about town, peddling lies from his rickshaw.