Odd Jobs

I'm starting a new temp job on Monday and the extensive interview process has caused me to fondly reminisce about the jobs of my past.

Babysitter:  Throughout junior high and high school I was the queen of all babysitters.  I started at the ripe age of eleven and babysat for family members, family friends, my brother's friends, friends of friends, church folk and the occasional babysitting gig of a friend that I'd end up crashing by slumber-party-default.  (Warning about tagging along on a friend's gig: You will inevitably end up doing most of the work and take home 0% of the cash.) 

The thing that made me the Babysitting Queen was simply that I actually played with the kids.  It was amazing to me how often kids would compare me to their last sitter with the statement, "You're nice.  You play with us."  Isn't that the gig?  "Well, what did your other babysitters do?"  "Sit on the couch, drink our pop, send us to bed early and watch tv." 

Another reason the kids loved me was that I would never rat out them out for misbehaving. I thought their obnoxious behavior somehow reflected poorly on my perfomance as a sitter.  If Matthew's parents found out that he wouldn't brush his teeth for me, wouldn't go to bed and that he peed on his brother, they'd think I didn't have things under control.  Solution?  "When your parents get home, at least pretend that you're sleeping!"  "How were the kids tonight.  Were they good?"  "Yes."  Cha-ching!  Job perks: Instant cash.  Cute babies.  Cons:  Poopy diapers, sometimes with corn in them.  Bratty kids that won't go to bed.

Bouvier?  Don't mind if I do.  Two dollars, please!

Dog Washer:  My first job out of high school was washing dogs over the holiday season at the grooming shop where my aunt works.  (Is that what they're called; Grooming shops? Pet barbers?  Doggie salons?)  I got paid $1.00 per small dog and $2.00 per large one. (Fortunately for me, the local community had a dense Bouvier population.) Job Perks: Instant cash. (I proudly purchased Taco Bell on a regular basis on the ride home.)  Coochy-cooing adorable pups all day. (Not to mention, the occasional cat.  P.S. Cats always pee when you bathe them.  It's a fact I learned by experience.)  Cons: Have you ever smelled a wet dog? Well, that's what I smelled like every day, all the way down to the bone.  The bathing room was equipped with several aprons (some with pictures of Bouviers on them.)  It was mentioned that I could change them as often as I deemed necessary and strongly suggested that I wear two at a time.  I wore three.  It would take one Bouvier and/or two Standard Poodles to soak through all three layers of aprons, two layers of winter clothing and one padded bra. 

Assembler:  Adding to the tradition of using family to find work, my first full-time job was at a factory my dad's friend owned.  I assembled computer parts.  Modemy-looking things, cabley- looking things... I have no idea what the heck it was that I was putting together.  I just know that at age eighteen, I could crimp, screwdrive and solder on par with any grown man.  Although, I did get fired from this job.  Not for my soldering skills, of course.  For being a motor mouth.  Job Perks: Minimum wage times 40 hours a week never looked like so much dough!  I couldn't believe I actually had hundreds of dollars at one time!  I opened my first bank account and spent it all on Levi's and scrunchies, if I recall.  Cons:  Carpal tunnel syndrome, daily blisters and the early signs of arthritis.  Too young!  I was oh so very young.

Buried alive in porn.

Video Store Clerk:  My first long-term full time gig.  My craziest work stories revolve around the video store where I spent ages 18-26.  I outlasted three store owners, one stalker, one sibling coworker and countless part-timers (including the senior-aged, the middle-aged and more than my share of the drooling and teenaged variety of males.)  The store closed mere months after my resignation.  Job Perks:  Free rentals, free movie posters, an endless wealth of pop culture knowledge, the opportunity to work with one the greatest handicapable souls I'd ever met and the most loyal customer base on planet earth.  I still remember some of my favorite customers' card numbers:

#12209 was a retired widower who was a avid car lover and drag-raced at the local track on the weekends.  He enjoyed war and action movies.  I would always hold a stock of new rentals for him on release day, knowing he'd show up by 4:00 pm and that he would trust me with his selections.  He missed his late wife dearly and still drove her gray sedan in memory of her.  We'd talk for hours about everything from his military enlistment in Guam to hot rods to his questions about the God that I believe in and he didn't understand.

#4528 was in his early-to-mid thirties and would talk my ear off.  His wife once chastised him at home, which he mentioned on his next visit. "She says I talk too much and that I'm boring people and wasting their time!  Am I wasting your time?"  No way, I told him.  Yeah, he talked my ear off, but at least he always had something interesting to say. 

#202 was an elderly friend of my elderly first manager.  He was always full of stories big and small.  I only believed about half of them.  He had a stroke in my last year there and lost his ability to speak.  His favorite thing to do!  God bless his heart. 

"Wild Bill", another senior citizen. He would sexually harass me to no end, but somehow managed to hold a small affection in my heart.  He loved the old westerns and would regal me with stories of his yearly trips to Wyoming. (He even invited me to join him one year. Yikes!)  He was a colorful character who smelled of heavy cigar smoke and wore gobs of Vaseline beneath his eyes.  He lost my affection one day by sneaking a Polaroid camera into the store and taking unsolicited paparazzi shots of me.  Creepy old man.

Joey, a handicapable customer of mine who would visit me at least 3 out of 5 shifts. Sometimes before I had even opened the store!  He loved watching old Wrestlemania tapes (Hulk Hogan era) and I would play them on the store monitors for him on the days when I had a heavy workload to do and couldn't get rid of him.

The couple whose names I can't mention because they were gay and hadn't outed themselves to family even, but had outed themselves to me.  They were featured in a local newspaper story (under assumed names) dealing with the issue that one of them had been living with AIDs.  His own mother was under the impression he had cancer while I, the video girl, was trusted with the whole truth.

Cons: #506 was a pompous foot doctor who once tried to lure me away to work for him.  He was always trying to seem more worldly and important than he actually was.  He would always ask me, "Parlez-vous français?", "Habla usted español?" and "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?" My answer was always no, no and no (no translation required.) And, I somehow managed to keep my tongue from asking, "Are those the only phrases you know in French, Spanish and German?"  He was last seen shopping, a decade later, at the video store my sister-in-law worked for at the time.  With the same routine, I'm told, too.  Geezo petes, Doc!  (That's what he made us call him...)  No one cares about your Sprechen!

The one customer whose initial were B.S. (no pun!) He was a lovely person and fun to talk to, but always refused to pay his late fees.  B.S., you caused me a world of trouble!

The porn room and all of its inhabitants.  Especially the scuzzy guy who brought his 15-looking-year-old son in there with him, (His idea of a birds and bees talk?) the guys who stained the carpeting and the ones who would, upon returning their half-watched tape, advise me, "You were in this one" *wink* and have themselves convinced that this was an original line and that I had never heard it before. Shudder! 

Not to mention the obvious cons of lousy pay, lousy hours and zero vacation or sick time.

Video store shenanigans with sis.  I was going through my Pulp Fiction phase.

Which brings me to my last job:

Receptionist/Secretary/Insurance Claims Clerk Extraordinaire:  My most grown-up job to date, spanning the last eleven years of my life.  I can't complain about a day of it (although, I could... it just seems "too soon!")  Where, among the boring churn of the day-to-day, my coworkers and I found opportunity to carve out time to practice our runway walks, create our own Real Housewives intros and envision us in our own reality show.  We had a blast and I miss you gals every day!

I can only hope this next place fills me with such good times, stories, friends and fodder.  If not, oh well... It's just a temp job!

Not Normal

The fifteen minute drive between my brother's house and mine turns out to be the ripest setting for amusing conversations between my nephews, ages five and nine.

Today's was no different:

9YO: "When I grow up, I'm going to have five jobs. 1.) a D.J. I'm going to look so cool! I'll have awesome sunglasses, you know? The kind with the stripes. I'm going to wear a green jacket and have ginormous headphones, 2.) a zookeeper, 3.) a paleontologist, 4.) a fifth grade teacher and 5.) Ummm... a mega party animal, I guess."

5YO: "I'm going to be a gator wrestler when I grow up."

9YO: "No!"

5YO: "Yes. I'm going to have one job.  Wrestling gators and I'm going to wrestle them down!"

9YO:  "Well, when you die from a gator attack, I guess I'll see you at your funeral!"

5YO:  [thinks it over for another moment or two] "No.  Never mind.  I'm just going to be normal.  No wife.  No kids.  No job.  Normal."

ME:  [finding the perfect timing to interject with a teaching moment] "No, no, no... Normal people have jobs."

5YO:  "Fine.  I'll have one job, but no wife.  No girlfriend.  Just normal."

9YO:  "Don't you know that normal people are the most boring thing in the world?!  If there's one thing this family is not, it's normal.  We're too hyper.  We're not boring, we are not normal.  Normal people just sit up straight and watch way too much TV with either a dog or a cat sitting next to them.  Boring!"

5YO:  "Yeah, you're right.  Normal people are pretty boring.  That's not us.  We have fun."

9YO:  [launches into a three-minute diatribe against the lameness of normalcy and ends it with...] "Kimmy?"

ME:  "Yes?"

9YO:  "Just so you know, you don't have to worry... we're not talking about you.  You are NOT normal."

ME: "Thanks?"

9YO: [stares out the car window, watching the traffic going by and seeming content with his speech for the moment.  Then he dreamily footnotes:] "Normal people have the nicest cars."

Cooper for Husband in 2012

Anderson Cooper leaked to the press today the most incredibly dispensable news of his journalistic career. The fact that he is gay.  The world, in response, released a resounding, "Duh!" and went on about its breakfast.

We all figured it.  As any straight women can tell you, any man this good to be true will either fall under this category or the one occupied by Ted Bundy.  As the youngest son of Gloria Vanderbilt, who once (willinging and excitedly) worked as a child model, was sent to all-boys boarding school, suffered great tragedy in youth, knew Andy Warhol as a frequent family houseguest, has always been impeccibly dressed without a stylist and never forthcoming about his romantic entanglements, the ingredients all came ready-mix.  For the totally unobservant and those completely in denial, his befriending of Kathy Griffin should have been the last piece of this puzzle's solution.

Yeah, yeah... nature not nuture.  I'm just playing up sterotypes here.  The real news of the day is to all the men who are shocked to hear me say that I'd still marry him in a heartbeat.  Not just me, but I would bet large sums of money that I do not have on the odds that a huge percentage of honest women (and a possibly even larger number of dishonest ones) would too!

Do you think a straight man could make a Carhart backpack look this classy?  And, don't tell me the woman photobombing him wouldn't also still say, "yes".

Women love gay men.  It shouldn't be that confusing.  If it is, you clearly haven't watched enough sitcoms or romantic comedies to merit an opinion.  There's a certain appeal in the kind of mate who would share a bowl of popcorn during a Real Housewives marathon instead of trying to wrestle the remote away from you during one.  The kind of relationship where your wifely duties require exotic travel (instead of hunting and fishing trips), a deep and abiding support of your shoe habit and, well---depending on where your age and libido lie---alot less demand for actual wifely duties. Take us off the booty call list, Anderson, but don't take us completely out of the running! 

The more pressing question is society's need to "out" every celebrity in sight.  I don't care if John Travolta is or isn't.  I don't care if you say Tom Cruise has been lying all these years. I don't care if the "Cydney" who Jodie Foster thanked during a recent acceptance speech is male or female.  She owes nothing to me!  And, Anderson Cooper's sexual orientation should weigh no more heavily on our minds than the sex lives of our colleauges, teachers, pastors and grandparents.  We're not at all curious about what's going on in those bedrooms, so who cares about what's going on in his?  Pass the popcorn, Coops, I think Teresa's about to flip another table!

Wrapping up this broadcast: Cooper is gay. The world remains unshocked.  You may continue to fantasize about him all you want.  Thank you and goodnight.

I'll Be Hair For You

Today I feel the need to stand up for my convictions and publicly celebrate the most overrated and underappreciated haircut of my adult years: The Rachel.

Come the turn of the century, I've heard The Rachel referred to as the "ugliest haircut on earth", "the biggest mistake of my life" and something to filed under "What were we thinking?"---mostly online and most likely by females younger than I, because anyone my age (or Rachel's age, for that matter) hands down would list their biggest hair regret as The Dorothy Hamill.

You didn't have to go full "Rachel", mind you.  There were modified versions, ala Courtney Cox's longer version and Meg Ryan's shorter adorable 'do in You've Got Mail.

All bearing the same hallmarks of the cut---tons of choppy layers on top and ends chopped at a near 45 degree angle that could be flipped up or tucked under, depending on the funkiness of your mood that day.

I'm going to go against the tide here and state that this was one of the most versatile styles of my twenties. You could scrunch it, curl it, flat iron it, tease it, wear it natural, pin back part of it, pin back lots of it and still have enough for a ponytail (...if you didn't opt for the full "Rachel" in the back, that is.)

If any of you have seen Jennifer Aniston's hair before she became famous, you'll understand where I'm coming from.  It was an unfortunate mix of poufy and frizzy that was not quite curly/not quite straight. Or, in other words, exactly like the stuff that sprouts out of my own head.

Her hairstylist found the brilliant solution to those afflicted with our unusual texture by cutting away enough of it, making it actually manageable!  Our mornings got shorter for those few blessed years.  Then the cut went out of style and those of my kind were forced to go back to frying our rebellious tresses with curling and straightening irons and/or chemical treatments for hours on end.

Well, I'm striking back!  After flipping past too many old Friends reruns this week (because, seriously, it's on like every second of the day) and post one late-night viewing of You've Got Mail, I started to remember how easy my hair had it back in those days.

Well why can't I still have it easy?  Who's to say?!  My hair had already received an over half-a-foot self-chopping this week. (Yes, I've been my own hairstylist since the age of sixteen.  I have "issues", have I mentioned?)  And, even with that extra weight removed, it was still hanging all blobby and frizzy in this Michigan humidity. So I decided, against trend, "That's it!  I'm Rachel-ing!!"

And, so I did.

Forgive the lack of makeup. Did I mention it's like a 100 degrees here?! Why waste good concealer?

I did a longer version and not as choppy as I wore it back in the day, and minus the crazy layers in back that make it signature... plus I've got bangs... well, maybe it's not exactly a Rachel 'do, but what da ya know?

It's still lighter than air!

It dances!

It's glasses-friendly, which is important!

It works for me!

Whether it's a "Rachel" I wear today or not, I'll still defend the 'do to the end!  Layers are good for people like me.  We weren't all naturally blessed with good hair like Phoebe Buffay.  We Rachels of the hair world need to not be so ashamed.  They're just layers... get over it! 

If you don't think it's still in style, but you miss it, go for it!  It was never as bad as The Mullet, for crikey's sake.  And, long after The Rachel---in this same century, mind you---came The Kate Gosselin.  Do you really want to pick that battle?

(BTW: If we're not considering this a "Rachel" then explain why am I having a sudden urge to dance in a fountain and elope to Vegas with Ross?)