Life Lesson #29: I am available for an interview at a mutually convenient time. Pretty much, whenever.

Looking for a job is truly a fulltime occupation in itself.

So far, it’s the worst job I’ve ever had. And I’ve had some really crappy ones. As I scour the pages of Monster and shove my resume down the throat of anyone who makes the mistake of opening their mouth to ask if I’ve found anything yet (as if unique and rare forms of employment lie under rocks waiting to be discovered), I thought I’d take a look back on some of the more heinous ways I’ve tried to make a few bucks.

Demon Watcher
My first gig, like most young ladies (snark) from the ‘burbs, was babysitting for my neighbors’ twin terrors. What I made in good money, I lost in general fondness for children.

Nicholas and Damien (no coincidence his name sounds a bit like ‘demon’) spoke their own crazy language, punctuated by bloodcurdling screams and what I’m guessing were premature signs of Tourettes. They enjoyed kicking me in the shins for no good reason. They took immense pleasure in throwing semi-liquid substances, such as mashed potatoes, rice pudding and hair gel, on the walls and got huge kicks out of sticking beads, Raisinets, and the occasional bug up their tiny little nostrils. I think they were physically allergic to napping and eating anything that didn’t consist of some highly synthesized form of sugar.

There was a poop-smearing incident on the screen of the television in the family room. It was the last time I watched them.

Animal Keeper
Sadly, I didn’t quite learn that two kids were two more than I could handle. I strapped myself onto the next rung of the middle-class economic ladder: working as a camp counselor at a yacht club. For five summers.
There’s nothing quite like watching a bunch of organic-only, born-with-a-tennis-racket-in-hand, already-familiar-with-sailing-terms-at-birth kids as their gym-rat moms lounge by the pool only twenty yards away. That’s if you actually meet the moms. It was usually the nannies I dealt with (whom I preferred).

I did gain a little wisdom: I learned how to abuse the privilege of junior counselors. Once I got some younger people working underneath me, I swiftly delegated responsibilities and made sure to have as little hands-on time as possible.

One Night Stander
I was a cocktail waitress for one horrible, humiliating, physically painful evening.

Horrible: A table walked out on me. The tab was just under $100. Which of course came out of my tips. So I went home with seven bucks or so.

Humiliating: I dropped a tray of what might have been ten or so assorted beverages onto some guys lap. Glasses, bottles, liquid: everywhere. Including down my light colored shirt and his fancy (and I’m guessing expensive) pants.

Physically painful: Some dude gave me an ass smack-squeeze. It happened so quickly and violently, I almost toppled over. And while I’ve had my ass pinched, slapped, and brushed up on, it tends to happen one verb at a time. That was the only instance I got the double whammy from a total asshole for all to see.

Needless to say, I lasted one night. I never called them back and look upon the evening with a mix of disgrace and regret. The drive home was worse than many a walk of shame.

Ass Kisser
This was actually a non-paying internship I took in my junior year of college. It was for the New York branch of the highly coveted Endeavor, a talent agency that represents many a tv personality/actor/singer/all around entertainer.

My official title was Intern. I soon learned that really was an umbrella term for some of the following: Painter (of conference room), Cleaning Lady (including bathrooms), Rewinder (for some reason, they were all about vhs and not dvd), Paper Shredder (of really shitty scripts and neglected head shots), Dog Walker (for the head agent), and Copier (of anything, three times, because that’s just how we do things, sweetie).

I actually didn’t mind any of the above. Busy work has never bothered me. Better that than sitting with my thumb up my ass. Rather, it was the Celebrity Management that finally got to me.

Generally speaking, I like to treat most people with the same level of respect. I don’t think someone should be treated with a higher level of esteem just because they can lip-sync well or have a knack for crying on command. If, oh, I don’t know, you’re a NASA pilot or help find cures for deadly diseases, then by all means, you deserve my undivided attention and deep respect. But your show just went into syndication and your launching a new pilot? Sorry, but there is no f-ing way I’m going to stop everything I’m doing just to make sure there are only non-fragrant bath soaps in the restroom and that your chamomile tea is at room temperature. Nor am I going to pretend to like your new song, or that Japanese commercial you just shot.

When I gave Chris Klein the president of the company’s private cell number (thinking it was oh-so-important Kevin Kline) and accidentally hung up on Heavy D, they in so many words fired my ass. Which I couldn’t be more grateful for.

Life Lesson #29: Finding a job is not easy. At all. Especially when you have to steer clear of anything that requires one to be responsible for the lives of little ones or balance beverages on trays.

But I have faith I’ve learned a thing or two from past experience. And eventually, goddamn it, I will find a freakin’ job. In the meantime, if you’d like to pay me to hang out with you or wash your dishes, please, just let me know.