I haven’t updated recently for a perfectly legitimate reason: I have been too busy drinking, and no, not soda. Actually, that’s a lie, I have been drinking soda–with vodka. I will say this about the road to alcoholism: it is paved with FUN!
However, in those few sober hours between happy hours, I’ve been interviewing for–and actually getting!–menial jobs that do not involve computers or physical labor. I count math as physical labor. I feel ok about that, because a friend of mine recently (and drunkenly) said to me, “You are our lesbian mother,” in a primitive, tribal tone. As the leader of a tribe, I don’t feel the need to explain my shortcomings.
3 jobs I have worked recently (and what you might know them as, in layman’s terms):
1) Corporate Guardian (Receptionist)
2) Outerwear Organizational Manager (Check Coat Person)
3) Food Critic (Caterer)
The catering is actually a semi-permanent job, and I have no idea how I got it. I had heard that the catering company has a strict dress code, and also a strict grooming code. Hair has to be pulled back, nails filed and clean, no visible piercings, etc. I made an effort to look as un-Williamsburg as possible, which can mean only one thing: unironic pantyhose.
They itched, and I was pulling at my crotch for about three-fourths of the train ride there, but I thought the pantyhose would really seal the deal, really make a good impression.
Isn’t it strange how pulling at your crotch is one of the ultimate social no-no’s? Think about how much kids unwittingly pull at their junk between the ages of birth-6. It doesn’t mean anything yet, it’s just this stuff that gets in the way at recess. I still think of my junk that way, except now, recess is a metaphor for life.
Right before I went into the interview, I saw a loose thread in my pantyhose, and you know what I did? I pulled on it. I pulled on it like a big, stupid douchebag. It tore, of course, but it started off not so bad:
So I went in, sat down, tried to forget about it, and ya know what? I walked out of the interview and felt like I had really nailed it. I had successfully tricked my interviewer into thinking I was very motivated and eager to please, and straight-up functional. Then I sat down on the train, and looked at my legs:
I also took the time to change out of my heels and into tennis shoes. You’re welcome, New York pedestrians.
Also, at a completely different job interview, I crossed one leg over my knee, looked down at my foot, and said, “Oops! I accidentally look like the Wicked Witch of the East!”
So despite the fact that I totally Williamsburged my tights, I got the job, and now I’m a part-time caterer, and it will be my ruin. Catering is hard and tiring, and a lot like what the Party Down characters do except minus the van-sex, drinking, and eating. So really, it’s nothing like Party Down, and there’s no time to flirt. I don’t even know what my coworkers look like. Everyone is nice and professional, and the company does a fantastic job, but sweet mary mother of god it’s stressful. Since I started this job, my anxiety levels have sky-rocketed, I’m constantly craving candy, and I’ve started chewing my cuticles again.
A couple days ago, I woke up at 6:30AM and needed a marshmallow, not wanted, needed, so I walked to my kitchen half-asleep and grabbed one from the huge bag of gigantic marshmallows I always have on-hand. I fell back into bed, took a bite, and fell asleep satiated, remaining marshmallow clutched firmly, but lovingly, in my palm.
I woke up and my hand was in the exact same position, except the marshmallow was gone. I rolled over to look for it, and felt a huge gob of something warm and sticky and exactly like a melted marshmallow fusing my back with the bedsheets.
HOW DID IT GET THERE?
Catering, that’s how.
Someone suggested that I dress up as a character from Party Down for Halloween cause I’d only need to buy the bow-tie, and while it seemed like a fantastically pseudo-pop-culturally-obscure and economic idea at the time, after my first catering job was over, it hit a little too close to home. My first job consisted of:
1) Falling asleep in the catering van and dreaming that someone had written “WHORE D’OEUVRE” across my forehead in permanent black marker.
2) Unsuccessfully hitting on a clown (who was in full clown makeup). He came over to the buffet and asked if we were serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I said real sexy-like, “No, it’s jelly and cream cheese.” (Please recall that I am in an Anton Ego costume, and my hair is slicked back. Imagine Johnny Depp’s hair in Cry-Baby.)
He laughed a clowny laugh and said, “Oh man, I had this babysitter when I was a kid who would only let me eat margarine and jelly sandwiches. She was really post-World War II.” I laughed too loudly and said, “Wow, aren’t we all kinda post-World War II?…cause it happened. It happened already, and we’re living in the time after it happened.” He did a spot-on, mimey imitation of shooting himself in the head, did not take a sandwich, and walked away. I saw him juggling from afar later that evening. It stung.
3) Texted someone on my dinner break and typo’ed “Crunch Gym” as “Brunch Gym” for the millionth time. Sometimes I see it before I press “send,” but I send it anyway, cause it feels dangerous.
4) Thought about how passive aggressive the seemingly romantic lyrics, “you say it best when you say nothing at all” are.
After I got home, I decided to wait for the elevator despite the fact that another person was also waiting for the elevator–it shames me to take it to the 3rd floor. As it was coming down, it stopped on 2, and to create a common enemy who must be lazier than me, I said, “Seriously? Taking the elevator down from 2?”
The doors opened, and it was a man in a wheelchair.