Oct 27, 2008
Above: Pre-orgasmic pose.
I think 'searching for jobs' is actually the new 'single and fabulous' a la Sex and the City, minus the fabulous. I never had to work this hard to find a man; the difference between a job and a man, though, is... well, there has to be something. I'll keep thinking.
If I want to be a housekeeper, a vet tech, a legal assistant or a drycleaning monkey, I need to be prepared for The Meaningless Trifecta: extensive background/credit/urine checks. I will also need to jump through those same hoops if I want to work as a customer service rep in a call center, at Group Health in their billing department, or at the motherfucking ZOO. Because when I visit the zoo, it's easier to enjoy the animals knowing the employees have taken care of their credit card debt. Of course, this is designed to keep the riff-raff out, or single out the people who might extort money from you, but the problem is this: THAT PERSON IS ME. When it comes to this shit, I will monumentally FAIL. First off, there's all the heroin in my system from last weekend's Trainspotting-themed party, which lasted three months and ended with dead babies crawling across my ceiling. I blame peer pressure. Second, if my crappy credit had a personality it would be a manic depressive, and sound like Sam Kinison weeping into a bullhorn. But who to blame? And third, I don't know what my background check might reveal, but it can't be good; I've been pretty good lately, but I wonder how far back they check. If they go any further than last week, I'm moving to Mexico.
When did it become so hard to get a job? I know I use to get jobs quickly when the spa industry was an option (and leaving them equally fast--LATELY), but I've never had to pee or pull out my stock portfolio in order to prove my skills. That has a lot to do with the industry, though--you couldn't piss test anyone in a spa, because most massage therapists believe in the crazy power of Cannabis, and a lot of hairstylists like re-living the 80's through stupid vintage drugs, like bennies or blow. If the spa/salon industry relied on sobriety, there would only be 12 people actively working in Washington, and even less in New Jersey.
I applied for five jobs today, each more depressing than the last. I tried to imagine what my bottom line would be--like, what WON'T I do? And the first thing that came to mind was porn, but that doesn't really count; there's not a high demand for Samoan porn. The Samoans I know don't believe in porn (weird), because they're too busy believing in a Mormon God (crazy) to ever have sex for FUN (FOOLS). There's also the "I'd rather shave my eyeballs with a cheese grater than see Polynesian porn" aspect of it. I can only imagine what hideousness occurs when Samoans get it on; they're probably like two lazy sumo wrestlers in muumuus, swatting each other and sweating profusely. AND THESE ARE MY PEOPLE. *thumbs up*
So the real bottom lines are:
Party clown: Not happening. I'd rather be a REAL party clown, i.e.; fabulous drag queen.
Sarah Palin's next baby: I just wouldn't want to be named Oil-Rig Moosemeat Palin, or whatever name is flowing down the Alaskan Pipeline to Nowhere.
Collection agent: The only job where I could make money calling myself, all. day. long.