Get Fancy Get’s Job

“You work  three jobs? Uniquely American, isn’t it? I mean, that is fantastic that you’re doing that.” -George “f*cking” Bush

Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve had a proper job. The last one I had consisted of getting paid a lot of money for simply listening to music, writing about it, dicking around on the internet, hanging out with my friends, participating in three hour business meetings about the artistic merits of doom metal, and taking naps in the company bathroom. Shortly after, I did the same thing (more or less) from home. This went on for many years until the recession happened and a big round of bummers were delivered to inboxes everywhere.  Since then, I’ve been living on a strict diet of unemployment checks and wedding money to get by. Before you guys start cursing at me and saying how you’ve had things much worse, know that I’ve wasted the best years of my life in shitty job land. The only person that rivals my extensive list of “dumbest jobs ever” is my good pal, Sasha. I only say this because home-girl worked fast food. She also did her time at an ice cream parlor where a loud fire alarm would go off anytime there was a fire in Boston. Sa, am I even remembering that correctly? I swear it seems made up. You worked in a firehouse/ice cream joint, right? Was there ever really a time when that was okay?  Even by Boston’s low standards? The only job I’ve had that comes close to the hell associated with bloody, frozen knuckles and a fire alarm going off all the time would have to be when I worked at a coffeehouse in Omaha, Nebraska.  On my first day, the fat boss man threw an ice cream scooper at my head and called me a “dumb whore” when I politely inquired about our ice cream selection. In my defense, nobody even told me that we served ice cream. They were all too busy warning me about the cranky fat man with the dirty mouth. I’m embarrassed to admit that he did that kind of stuff all the time and I stayed at that job for like 5 months longer than I should have. I even stayed there when his son’s wife took over the kitchen and started serving dishes called “hamloaf.” Whatever. That job gave me zine material for an entire summer.

The future's so bright I gotta wear shades. Me on my porch circa 1994. Just another day of low wages and verbal abuse from the fat man.

My point to all of this is that I have more than done my time when it comes to working hard, getting paid nothing, and being treated like scum of the earth.  For over a decade, I’ve been writing “tool-for-the-man” on my taxes when asked about my occupation. I’ve been a telemarketer, a cigarette girl, a barista, a bartender, a grumpy waitress, a retail slave, and an office monkey. I’ve shucked corn, cleaned toilets, cleaned popcorn machines, worked in warehouses, kitchens, the ghetto, cubicles, elevators, windowless corners, my art school’s  graduation, and weekends on both Haight St. (gasp) and Union Square (double gasp!!). I’ve worn stupid uniforms and wigs – name tags and hair nets – and a big bow on my ass. A video store once fired me for my dark eyeliner and refusal to line dance (not even kidding) in the aisles while a telemarketing place just gave me a polite warning when they discovered that I spent the entire work day making up fake phone interviews while doodling cartoons of my co-workers on the table.

I have also (hangs head in shame) worked at Tower Records (twice in two different countries) and (hangs head even lower) worked for Ken Sarachan of Rasputin Records. If you thought the boss that called me a “dumb whore” was bad, I challenge you to spend two minutes in the company of Ken. He’s practically a villain in a twisted comic book and I’m almost positive that there are entire websites devoted to what a dickhead he is. If there aren’t any, I may just change this blog to “Seriously, Ken?!!! Why are you such a dickhead?!!!” I actually have enough stories to keep that blog going for at least two years. You guys have no idea. Entire friendships have blossomed over what a jerk that guy is. Don’t get me started.

This isn't over, Ken "dickhead" McDickface.

Ahem. Where was I? Work, of course. As some of you know, I finally got a job. I know. Whoopee! The recession is officially over! A college educated female with an impressive resume  finally landed a job in Portland, Oregon after only looking for an entire year. Before you financial analysts get too excited, I actually make half of what I made at my last job and I work twice as many hours. Truth is, I make less than what I made in the nineties.  Do you know how long ago the nineties were? Umm, it was a long dang time ago.  Clinton was president and I’m pretty sure people only used the internet for porn back then.  I refuse to complain, though. Given that most people in Poortland can’t even get a job as a barista, I’m lucky I found a job, especially a “cool” one. Whatever that means.

My job. Sort of.

Even though it’s all guys that work here, I like everyone (including the boss) and it never feels like work. Basically I’m getting paid to listen to rare 45’s. It’s an audiophile’s dream, people.  The only part I don’t like is the staying awake and staying put in one place for longer than 7 hours. That part sucks. Man, why is it so hard to do that? I don’t care how great your job is, it’s hard work to physically be at work. Even more exhausting is the amount of caffeine required to do so. I’m not exaggerating when I compare it to going on a cross country road trip.

Cross country road trip or going to work?

Clearly the piles of energy drinks and coffee cups littering the office are an indication that my co-workers seem to agree with me on that one.  I even hear them talking about where to get the most potent forms of energy drinks.  Seriously, people. You would think that we were a team of computer techs working the night shift or something. Do we all really need extra doses of taurine just to get through an 8 hour day of listening to music? Have I really had two soy cappuccinos before noon? Am I really considering getting a third one?

Uh-huh.

Friends assure me that this too shall pass. They claim numbness will replace my longing for caffeine as I slowly succumb to the dull, treacherous monotony of work. Foodstuff will no longer have flavor while I spend meaningless lunch breaks yawning over Facebook quizzes and Googling ergomatic posture tips.

In the meantime, I will enjoy yet another cup-a-energeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy and the familiar burning in my stomach from another honest day of work.  You know, I should really get that burning checked out. Too bad I don’t have health insurance.

How uniquely American of I.