Navigate / search

Oops, I Did It Again.

When it comes to jobs of my past, I don’t exactly have a stellar track record.

I started off on the straight-and-narrow, at age 11, babysitting for my mom’s friends and neighbors. Ever the professional, I received my babysitting certification from the Red Cross. I knew how to perform CPR. I knew how to bandage abrasions. I knew how to stick my fingers into a kid’s throat to remove a blockage. Basically, I could tell parents, Hey. Nothing bad should happen to your kids under my care, but by golly if they choke or bleed or their hearts stop beating for any reason — any reason at all — I should, theoretically, be able to save them.

Comforting, no?

I’d pack along my little babysitting kit, complete with crafts and games and things kids liked to do 20 years ago that didn’t involve batteries or electricity or controllers or computer-mimicked hand motions, and I quickly became the IT babysitter for the ‘hood. Kids adored me, believe it or not, and thanks to the under-the-table payment nature of the gig, I was quickly able to save a pretty impressive amount of money by the time I was 15.

Then, through some unfortunate standard of life progression set by our peers, I decided it was time to get a “real” job.  I don’t know why, since in retrospect, babysitting was pretty much the best gig ever. The kids would go to bed at 8 and I had the whole night to watch Cocktail and gobble snacks provided by generous parents. Plus, it kept me out of trouble.

Regardless, I moved on to burger flipping at A&W Rootbeer, then Product Replacement Plan selling at Best Buy, then table waiting at a sports bar, then tour guiding on my college campus and dish washing at the nearby coffee shop and waking up at 5:00 a.m. to sign people into the gym and wipe down mirrors and ellipticals.

Glamorous.

After quitting college and moving back to Nebraska, waited tables again. Then I took a road trip. Then I fixed and sold watches. Then I moved with Justin to Georgia and waited more tables and worked in a jewelry store and finally — finally — landed an environmental internship on the Air Force base.

In one year, I actually managed to file taxes for 7 different jobs in 3 separate states.

Turns out that’s not the best way to build your resume.

Once we moved to North Carolina, it was on to white-collar America. My first job here was for an environmental consulting company (which involved a very interesting interview), but my hour-and-a-half commute was turning me into a drooling zombie, so that only lasted 6 months.

Then, the job on Fort Bragg.

The job where I cracked.

The job that launched my Costa Rica hot sauce makin’ career and effectively redirected my entire professional course from that of an eventual suit-wearing government schmoozer to a beatnik hippie travel writer, if I could only have my way. (Minus the beatnik hippie part because I enjoy all kinds of travel. All kinds.)

After a year of absolutely nothing happening, I started hourly work at a bar just to earn some cash to feel like less of a lump, and then as a part-time real estate assistant, and this, my friends, is where you would probably still find me in another year, had I not finally realized my problem.

I wasn’t working.

I was gliding.

I wasn’t planning.

I was drifting.

They say that dreams don’t work unless you do.

Oh.

So I quit my job in order to work.

Which only partially makes me feel like a loser.

But also, now I know.

Beyond a shadow of a doubt I know that working my ass off for someone else’s success is NOT what I want for myself in this world.

I have to stop trying to find myself.

I have to create myself.

It only took me approximately 47 jobs to get here.

Back at the bottom of the ladder again, but this time, it’s my own.

And when you build your own ladder, it seems, it becomes a hell of a lot more satisfying to climb.

It’s Not A Memo – It’s a Mission Statement.

Can you name the movie quoted in the title of this post?

As I sit here this morning with my thin toasted bagel, honey nut cream cheese, flavored coffee, glass of OJ, I realize.

I realize that I’m an almost-thirty-year-old assistant.

I’m an almost-thirty-year-old assistant with a college degree.

No responsibilities, no career driven passion, no zsa zsa zu for anything, save spewing my verbiage onto a screen and getting a slight thrill every time someone acknowledges that I do, in fact, exist.

The issue at hand is simple.

It’s hard to admit, and I choke as I write, because a character trait that would land me a role as a strong, unforgettable leading lady of my own damn story, this is not.

But regardless, it’s true.

 

I am addicted to the bottom of the ladder.

 

I’m not tied to it, wormlike umbilical cord still firmly attached at the navel, providing comfort and sustenance until I’m ready to climb.

Not that.

I’m addicted to it because I’m not attached.

And, if you want to know the truth, I have no desire to climb.

I test a rung, then jump back down.  It’s fun down here in the tall, tall grass.  Up there, I’d have a view of the whole, wide world.  But down here?  Down here I get to run all around, play in the dirt, leave when I want, answer to no one.  The playground is huge, and there’s no way I’d trade it for a tether to my cell phone and a plush, swivel office chair.

Source

But what am I doing? I ask myself as I drive, fists clenched around the molded plastic wheel, cutting through traffic in a town that hates me on my way to the place where I will spend the next 6 self-deprecating hours as an almost-thirty-year-old assistant.

I’m not ashamed of the job itself, but of the fact that I’m wasting my time.

Of the fact that I’m wasting everyone’s time.

Of the fact that I’m privileged enough to do as I please, yet here I sit, ass tucked firmly between Rung 1 and Rung 2, with no drive to climb yet no heart to run.  To run with writing, to declare to the world that this will be my career, even if it makes me a failure who has no choice but to sit at the bottom, staring up with envy at those who’ve made it — who’ve made a true impact — the Chuck Palahniuks and the J. K. Rowlings and the Stephen Kings and yes, the Jenny Lawsons and all the rest with their views from the top and room to run.

I’ve carried this metaphor too far, I think.

Which tells me I probably have a long way to go.

And many changes to make.

Are you ready?

Because I’m not sure I am, but it means a lot that you’re still here.  Still reading.  And you — yes, you — are my encouragement.

 

How to Land a Job as a Classy Hooker or Someone Who Gets to Look at Eddie Vedder’s Butt

*I apologize in advance to the straight men who read this blog for the photos of attractive men that follow.  This is post is not about attractive men.  It’s just how the photos happened to work out.  Ladies and gay men, you’re welcome.

I have to say, I’m a pretty lucky person.

I’m lucky because I have some pretty hilarious Facebook friends.

And in a world where it seems like people are consistently content to cut each other down, to take pleasure in others’ failures, and to get so caught up in the frantic climb to the top, like so many salmon swimming upstream, sometimes it’s just nice to have people who make me laugh.

Even if it’s at myself.

Especially if it’s at myself.

In a fit of frustrated self-pity yesterday at not being able to even get interviewed for jobs I don’t really want (Ding! Ding! Maybe that’s the problem.), I did something bad.  I committed a Facebook faux pas.  A Facebook party foul, if you will.

(A farty foul?  A parbook foul?  I’ll work on that.)

But the point is that it wasn’t good.  It was like when you’re at a party, everyone’s having a fantastic time just chillin’, having a couple of drinks, perhaps discussing how it’s physically possible for Jared Leto to still look completely jumpable while wearing a spirit hood, and yet, beyond all reason or comprehension, he does… you know, the usual party stuff, and somehow you manage to knock over an entire pitcher of a tasty, alcoholic beverage and some jerk yells, “PARTY FOUL!” across the room and everybody boos.

As if you didn’t already feel awful enough.

Embarrassing fact:  I just learned what a spirit hood is for the first time this morning thanks to laxsupermom’s comment on my post from yesterday. And I have to say, I see the appeal.  Especially if it comes gratis with a Jared Leto attached.  (Photo source.)

So what I did is I posted one of those, oh-I’m-so-bummed-and-emo-so-please-feel-sorry-for-me-even-though-I’m-making-a-joke-about-myself-under-the-guise-of-humor status updates.  It said:

With “Hot Sauce Maker” and “Freelance Writer” as my last two positions held, I suppose I can understand why no one wants to interview me. :(

Yep.  Complete with sad face emoticon.

Fortunately, my friends are not the types who would let this dampen their spirits.  Nor will they play into my self-pity, because, let’s face it — that doesn’t help anyone.

Instead, they offered me several potentially lucrative job opportunities working for them that hadn’t even occurred to me:

  • Part-time wearer outer of 1-year-old twin girls who gets paid in mashed bananas and limitless laughter (thanks, Jenn!);
  • Roadie for a travelling masseuse to the stars, where my payment for strapping a massage table to my back and carrying around a bag of assorted lotions and lubes at rock concerts would be backstage passes to said rock concerts (thanks, Kathryn!);
  • Professional traveling hippie/road trip partner-in-crime a la Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty in Kerouac’s On the Road, who gets paid with the freedom to do whatever I want, as long as it doesn’t cost any money.  Because we wouldn’t have any (thanks, Ashley H!);
  • Classy hooker, where there would be “no getting near the twig and berries,” and yet I would still get paid with “free dinners and Kentucky Derby races” (thanks again, Ashley H!); and
  • One opportunity where I might actually get paid.  Like with money.  And I wouldn’t have to take off my clothes.  (Thanks, Ashley L.!)

I’ll admit — some of those gigs actually sound kind of cool to me.  I’ll leave it to you to figure out which ones those are.

“Okay, Mr. Vedder — would you please remove your shorts?”

And finally, there were the comments that weren’t job offers, but written solely to comfort and console me in my time of need.  Comments like:

  • “You forgot street-walker.”  (Thanks, Kelly — I forgot I did that from 2003-2004.  I’ll add that to the ol’ res.  Maybe I’ll get some bites.)
  • “I didn’t know you made hot sauce.”  (Thanks, Heather — I was a regular hot sauce makin’ machine, during my time in Costa Rica last year.  Sadly, my dreams of choking on capsaicin for the rest of my life were capped when I had to return to the real world.)
  • “I’ll interview you if you just need to feel better about your experience. :)”  (Thanks, Tim — Because I don’t actually want a job.  I just want a fake interview that’s somehow supposed to make me feel better about my work experience even though you’re not “interviewing” me based on my work experience.  But actually, when I think about it, that might work.  So ignore my sarcasm.)
  • “Yeah unless your last name is Tabasco?”  (Thanks, John — I knew I should’ve married up.  Of course, if I married someone from the Tabasco clan, I wouldn’t be making the sauce — I’d just be bathing in the money it procured.)

So there you have it.  Nine bulleted reasons why I love my Facebook friends.  Really!  I do — for always making me laugh.

And, in case you’re wondering, I really do have Hot Sauce Producer and Freelance Writer on my resume.  It’s a very particular set of skills, but combined with a winning attitude and a go-to personality, it just might make me the perfect match for a company that’s going places.

Big places.

Related post: Why You Should Either Pay Me to Collate or Contract Bird Flu.  Or Both.

I’m Only Mean to the People I Love

After much careful consideration and over 4 weeks home from Costa Rica, I’ve come to the conclusion that my friends must hate me.

I mean, why else would they be constantly bombarding me with environmental job listings, certification programs, grad school opportunities, and questions like, “What are you going to do now?” and, “Soo… what did you do today?” (always said with a sly grin because they know the answer is not, “Oh, I had a productive day at the office.”)

And really, there is nothing more humiliating than having to answer, “I’m not sure what I’ll be doing next – I’m still weighing my options” and, “Oh, you know… laundry, cleaned the house, cooked dinner…” when the truth is that I have no frickin’ clue what I’m going to do with my life and I spend my days trying to figure it out, writing, researching, weighing my options, and why are all of you rushing me??!!

Okay, in reality I know my friends are actually being helpful, giving me that nudge they know I need because they’re my friends and I deliberately surround myself with brutally honest people because I can’t stand it when anyone’s like, “Oh, you have all the time in the world to figure out what you want to do!” because we all know I don’t have all the time in the world because I’m 28, which isn’t old, but it’s kind of about that time where I should be figuring my sh*t out, you know?  So I know they’re on my side here.  They don’t want to see me fail.

Which is comforting.

And also a lot of pressure.  I mean, I created this opportunity for myself – this blank slate – and so far it’s been like I’m swimming against a rip tide of “shoulds” and “have tos” in search of the ever evasive “wants.”

Making the transition from a fairly successful, decent-paying job that fit my educational background to… whatever I end up doing, is easier said than done.  But let’s face it – now, when I no longer have that bi-weekly paycheck coming in – is not the time to freeze.  It’s time to press on, put myself out there, and avoid the need I feel to apologize for my self-invoked economic status every time it seems like someone looks at my apparent flounder with pity.

Because it’s important to remember that this isn’t flounder.  This is… something else.  It’s like my dad always told me – I might appear to be procrastinating to everyone else, but on the inside I’m constantly formulating plans, playing out hypotheticals, moving the chess pieces around.  It’s important to think before I act, because we’ve all seen how hard it is to jump the tracks once we get going in a certain direction.  I don’t want to make a habit out of this.  I want the next move to be right.

So bear with me, friends.  I haven’t fallen completely off the edge.  I just need to dangle here a bit before I take the plunge back into reality.  I’m lucky I can do that.

And in the meantime, I sure am glad I have you.