Thursday, June 30, 2011

If only job hunting was like "The Most Dangerous Game...."

Two months later and the job search continues. 

I actually fell asleep while filling out an application today. It’s that bad.

I need a job. And not the way most American’s need a job.  I need a job the way a crack fiend needs to sell stolen copper pipes to support his habit.

Like Donald Trump needs to invest in a barber.

Like Michelle Obama needs to run for president.

Okay. I’m done.

In all seriousness – I desperately need money, and not just because I like the way it smells.  We make  money to spend money. I need a paycheck so that I can *know* that my portion of rent will be covered. That my half of groceries and utilities will be paid. 

I need to know that I can go back to school and not have to take out $12,000 in loans to cover tuition, fees, books and room and board. Besides, isn’t that how we got into this mess in the first place? Borrowing and borrowing because we could?

I know that there are millions of other American’s out there that are in my position. Waking up and dragging their lumpy asses to their computers to sit and stare at indeed/careerbuilder/jobs/snagajob/ and send out resume after resume. I know I’m not the only one out there with 8 different resumes and 25 different cover letters on her hard drive.

There are countless others that get up and walk around, searching for “we’re hiring” signs, and walking into business after business requesting to speak to managers.

I know I’m not the only one that watches the employed thinking, “I could do that way better than her. Why does she have a job and not me?”

It really crumbs my toast.

I hope and I pray and I prope because that’s all I can do.

And I try not to worry too much about where I’ll be in two more months. It’s so damned hard though. I don’t want to regret going back to school because of a swirling eddy of debt.

I don’t want to regret not going back to school because I was too afraid to accrue said debt.

Ack. Back to job hunting I go.  

Shia LaBeouf's a screamer.

Trust me on this. I witnessed it first hand. Go see Transformers 3: Dark of the Moon if you don't believe me.

And, while I'm on the topic, this movie took my breath away. It's the first movie I've seen all summer that was amazingly shot and well written.  I was very impressed with the action choreography, the animation, the story. You will be too. I give it an A (an not just because I got to see LaBeouf's 'O' face.)

Go see it.


(Besides, you might be treated to a gorgeously edited preview of a mission that's apparently still impossible to complete.)

Tuesday, June 21, 2011

She's Baaaaaaack!

It's been about two months since I last posted here, and as I never officially let the blog go - I've decided to come back.  Below you'll find something I posted as a note, but just recently decided to make more widely available. Hopefully this marks the beginning of my return to le public blogosphere. 

As I lay here agonizing over what profession I want to choose for my life, it occurs to me that life would be vastly easier if nurses would simply put post-it notes with predetermined jobs on them on our foreheads when we’re born. But I guess that sounds too much like communism, so I here I sit, contemplating my existence and what it means to be a broke, black woman in 2011 who can’t even afford to shop at Victoria’s Secret semi-annual sale.

I constantly agonize over my decision to leave graduate school – which for a science major is as close to a “cushy” job as one will ever get straight out of college. Sure, $22,000 a year with health and dental sounds great (especially to the unemployed and uninsured), but when you find out that you spend 40 soul sucking hours in a dungeon missing everything but the second coming and the invention of zombies, and that your insurance DOES NOT COVER the cost of the zombie vaccine, you start to think that maybe homelessness isn’t as bad as it sounds.  Add to that the near absolute certainty that you’ll have to devote 10-15 more hours of your precious, precious time to training the undergraduate drones AND deduct 6-7 years from your already short life (when compared to vampires, werewolves and politicians) you come to the realization that life is too fucking short and $22,000 is not enough fucking money.

And, if you’re at all like me, you’ll pack up (most) your shit and leave, only to sit in a dark room all hours of the day placing application after application while waiting for the cicadas to come and carry you off to their baby making farm (get on your knees and thank the heavens if it’s not cicada season where you are).  Then, you’ll start to think that maybe leaving grad school wasn’t the most informed decision.

I’ve contemplated a job as a stripper - I mean, given it serious thought.  All the way to mimicking the dance moves I think a stripper might employ.  But, that job may not be the best for me – I sometimes find it hard to shower due to the sheer amount of naked skin involved.  I also chased my boyfriend (who has a cold) around the room with some Lysol spray last night – so one might suppose that I’ve got an issue with germs.

Yep, stripping is out.

So far, I’ve applied to be your local cable guy (testicles optional), delivery driver (car not included), pizza maker (mustache required), waitress, test-tubey drink girl (no, you can’t have the test tubes), administrative assistant/secretary/receptionist, animal lab tech (aka “will endure being pissed on by mice for pay” tech), call center phone person, pharmacy tech (because I loves the drugs), and the list goes on.

At this point – I’m ready to stand on the busiest corner in the city holding a sign that says – will drink gasoline and fart fire for money.

But, until Kinko’s finishes my sign, I’m still sending out applications to any place that’ll have me. I hunted down some local bakeries, citing my love of baking and my desire (but financial inability) to attend the local school of the culinary (pronounced kew-linary, say it with me now) arts. I’m hoping some kind soul will have pity and enough income to award me a part time job. 

In the meantime – this is part one of my semi-autobiographical story, tentatively entitled – “Drinking Gasoline and Farting Fire: or, how I survived my escape from graduate school.”