Dont Mince Words

I would personally like to thank Home Depot for bringing me good luck, temporarily.

On Monday I decided the job market did, indeed suck ass and I needed to get some form of a job to get by for a few more months while I waited for my networking to pan out. I waffled between waitressing and retail. My happy medium was Home Depot. I figured I would benefit from working in a retail environment littered with sober, home improvement men. My bonus structure would be dates.

There are lots of employment applications online now. Home Depot is no exception. I have to say their application reminded me how horrible retail work truly is. My favorite question was “How many times in the past year have you shoved a co-worker.” Hum. No physical shoves, but a lot of mental ones. Oh, and the evil eye. I can do the evil eye. But no shoves. I did work with a lot of middle-aged white guys at my last job that I wanted to bitch slap into kingdom come. I’ll leave the shoving for their wives.

So, where’s the luck you ask? Well, just when I think I’ve hit bottom, a glimmer of hope reminds me that I don’t need to wear an apron and a name tag.

Today I was called for a freelance writing job. Don’t get excited. It’s not with New Yorker, Atlantic Monthly, or The LA Times. Nope, it is with an insurance company in Santa Monica. This is hot, steamy corporate writing in one of the most exciting and progressive industries. I interviewed for this same position three months ago. I was passed over. Imagine my delight when I saw the job posted again on monster.com. Yesterday I sent an email to the woman I met three months ago and let her know I was available to help out on a freelance or full-time basis. They called today at 5 p.m.

I start tomorrow, for how long, I don’t know. I do know I don’t look good in orange aprons and, in this economy, I will take sloppy seconds on a job I should have been hired for in the first place.

Last week, on three different occasions, women of various socioeconomic backgrounds made reference to me to the fact that our trailblazing sisters of the 60’s have made us current-day women doubt how much actual progress we’ve made. I immediately started thinking about my mother’s ‘kept woman’ reference (see 9/23/03 post). Since I’ve had a career and I know what I enjoy, is it OK to bail on the workforce now and find a man who can support my habits?

Would that be selling out?

I spent $7,000 on a graduate degree that would have been better spent paying off a credit card. Why did I get the degree? So I could distinguish myself in the piles of resumes during the recession of the early 90’s. Since that time, I’ve been working long hours to try to distinguish myself from the men. In my last position at a Fortune 25 boys club, I think only a sex change would have helped me get promoted.

In these three months of unemployment, you know what I’ve realized? I’m tired. If I work at all, I want to work in a happy place with normal hours and normal people. But you know what? If I NEVER worked again, that would OK as well. This kept woman idea my mother had might be a clever little plan. I resisted in my early 20’s because I felt like I had to develop my professional identity (and get an ROI on my degree). Now that I know I am a marketing communications professional that would sooner never work again, let’s figure out this EVIL PLAN B.

If I were going to create my own Ozzie and Harriet bra-wearing utopia, what kind of man would I need and what could I provide in exchange? I need a full-size kitchen with a behemoth SubZero refrigerator and a Viking six burner stove with bun warmer. Here I would create gourmet meals for my Ozzie in addition to baking for block parties and hosting random neighborhood social events. My Ozzie would also need to provide me with an open line of credit at Home Depot so I could actually DO the tasks they teach you at those weekend How-To clinics. I would do everything from grout to crown moldings. On weekends, I’d teach Ozzie how to use all the power tools I bought. Let’s see, what else… Oh, I would probably need a car, but it can be a beater… like maybe a ’72 Scout w/the top chopped off. Something that hauls and says fuck you to the current day SUV owners. I might need a little allowance too…just enough to have a few beers with the girls on book club night.

What does Ozzie get in exchange for funding my lifestyle? Well, he gets fed and he gets a well-maintained house. And, instead of 2.2 kids, he’ll get to have sex 2.2 times a day.

That seems fair, right?

When you are unemployed, sometimes you think about employment opportunities that, under normal circumstances, you’d never consider in a million years.

Let’s take egg donation for instance. I still cower in fear every time my mother yells, “Whatever you do, don’t get pregnant.” I’m 37 and it hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps I should turn over these unused eggs to someone who could use them. Biological recycling…waste management. Take them all out and maybe my mother will shut up. Win-win.

There is a company called the Donor Source advertising for egg donors on Craig’s list. This is serious commitment: several weeks of injections to increase egg production and then harvesting (scoop out) under general anesthesia. I’d be willing to bet that these horror-mone injections screw with your mental state to the point where you probably want to strangle a man with your chocolate IV drip. What’s the compensation? It is a mere $5,500 to fuck with your delicate chemical balance all in the name of giving someone else life. Here’s the funnier part. Donor Source requests that you be less than 29 years of age and a weight appropriate non-smoker.

So much for that get rich quick scheme.

On the other hand, we have sperm donation: men doing what they do best – jerking off. The California Cryobank is seeking healthy males aged 19 to 38 for anonymous donation. They require proof of an undergraduate degree. Dumb sperm need not apply and no Strom Thurmond-aged sperm either. The men are paid $900 a month to whack off two times a week. Since they are already probably meeting that frequency, the only inconvenience here is location.

As infertile couples bypass adoption to flip through photo books to assemble their genetically superior Petri dish specimen, my fat, old ass has realized, once again, I’m overqualified for another job.

That’s alright; at least I have my health.