...it was a sucky, sucky year for finding a job,I used to find that song very sad back in the day. It's even sadder now that I've completely slaughtered it.... Alas, I wasn't even a twinkle in the old man' eye when it was written in 1961, but I remember it playing on the radio and on Merv Griffin. But, I LIKE my version; it's more 21st century, more Bush-o-nomics era. It fits the ten percent unemployment decade doesn't it? Yeah I know what you're thinking, but it's not Obama's fault. He got handed the keys to a burned out economy with a slap on the back from ol' Georgie boy sneaking a "Hey Dick, duck hunting much?" sign onto his coat.
Cuz I'd never work'd a lick,
And these people were dicks,
No one to hire the likes of me,
When I was seventeen...
And now I'm forty-five,
And it's a sucky, sucky year,
It is a sucky, sucky year for some one like me,
With a kick ass resume,
They send me on my way,
They know I'll want THEIR job,
You bet your sweet ass they're right,
Cuz now I'm forty-five....
This is my problem now. No one wants to hire me and it's the reverse of the problem I had when I graduated from high school a "few" years ago. (Ahem.) My resume's big. I can't hide the fact that I'm a go-getter, that I'm confident, a people-person, and intelligent. My husband offered to help me with that by showing me several facial constructs I could adopt when I walked in but I declined. You've all seen them on the Three Stooges so that's all I'm going to say about that.
I should have been more like a recent ex-co-worker of mine with a less than stellar resume. Being over-qualified for something is certainly not one of her biggest concerns. Her resume reads like this: bartender, shop clerk, factory assembly worker, bartender, shop clerk, waitress, hostess, bartender, Professional Person. Ta DAH!!! Ain't no one afraid of this chick busting through any glass ceilings any time in the future. She doesn't scare anyone with her talent; only when she turns around and you thank God it's not a dark alleyway at midnight. Anyhow, I bet she can mix a mean cosmopolitan or make change for a twenty in two seconds flat. Quite ironically, she probably could have gotten either of the two jobs for which I just interviewed, which makes me feel pretty good. She's got something I'll never have: zero expectations of greatness.
I didn't want those jobs; I just wanted to be "wanted."It's a product of being unemployed, feckless, living in my pajamas (and liking it more than just a little bit) for more than three months now. But, it's not "right," this kind of life. Is it? I feel I am productive. I'm trying to write this book in my head onto paper. I also blog.......and it will pay-off somehow, someday. The house is clean, the laundry is all done. I prepare delicious and thoughtful meals every night like mustard pork with homemade spaetzle or potato crust chicken pie with a tarragon cheese sauce, and homemade biscuits. Tonight is cumin-laced meatloaf with butter-laced mashed russet potatoes with green beans. (I'll tell you a secret: there is butter in everything now!!!) Luscious desserts, like pecan sweet bread, chocolate chip banana bread and sweet potato pie are waiting to make us (me) fatter. The big ol' woodstove is cranked up and the whole house toasty warm, like 85 degrees warm. Yeah baby!!!
How would it be if I were back at work? The house would be clean enough and warm enough. No desserts except for store-bought cookies or candy. The laundry would be manageable. Hubby would have to rush home like always and scrounge dinner onto the table, something quick. I'd get home at 5:30 if I was lucky, big dark circles under my eyes again. I'd have the residual shakiness from my caffeine addiction of no less than ten cups of regular coffee and yucky fast food roiling in my gut from lunch. I'd be just shaking off the "irritated beyond belief" sensation from whatever horseshit I took from "whoever" all day long. Driving lots of miles a day in good and really bad weather on winding, narrow island roads engineered by drunken pirates. Now I remember why I love my pajamas more than my work.
The late, great George Carlin said, "Most people work just hard enough not to get fired and get paid just enough money not to quit." I really like that quote and it is sadly the truth. But it never applied to me. I worked my ass off because that was how I was raised by my Depression-era parents. And I was never paid enough to not quit... OBVIOUSLY.
Still I struggle with the construct of working at a "real" job vs. sort of working, trying to work at home, trying to build a writing life while keeping my sanity and assure my husband of "something" I still can't define or put a price tag on. But, he truly believes in me and knows my tenacity of spirit. He's even seen my tenacity...'nuf' said.