At the rate I’m currently going with this blog, I’m writing one piece a month and getting on average one comment per blog post. Just the way I like it — mediocre and unimpressive. You’d think since I’m job-free, I’d spend my days penning masterworks of stunning blogosity while intermittently thinking deep thoughts and rearranging my shoe rack. (Ed. note: my shoe rack is more like a shoe shelf made out of balsa wood and some Elmer’s glue by those Swedish elves at IKEA) Yet, sitting down to write profundities is hard when you land yourself a sweet part-time holiday job. That’s right, your best friend, ME, managed to fool some folks into hiring her to do retail for the Chrismakah season. And at about a quarter of the money I was making at my big-girl job. Score!
When the rent is due and you want to feel like an “equal partner” in your long-term relationship, you gotta go out there and make the dough any way you can. In my case that meant working at The Cheese, a store that sells a variety of fancy-ish cheeses, a handful of European specialty foods and a selection of canned goods that fell off the back of a truck. It’s not really called The Cheese, though if the owners would like to change the store’s name to that, they have my blessing.
Now, keep in mind, I haven’t worked a retail job since I was 16 and helped out at a bridal/fancy frock store during prom season. Basically, I assisted chunky girls into the prom dresses of their dreams by yanking real hard on the zippers. I popped a lot of sequins off those gowns, but it was worth it to see their chubby faces beaming at themselves in the mirror.
With that experience, I was clearly qualified to cut cheese (haha! Fart reference!) and make gift baskets, my two primary responsibilities there. When I began, I had to leave my ego at home, sulking on the couch, telling the dog how much better I was than this job. I have a couple of college degrees, including one that begins with an M and ends in “asters.” I shouldn’t be working retail for $1.67 an hour, and yet there I was cutting blocks of cheddar and wrapping them with infernal plastic wrap, which kept ripping, pushing me to the brink of insanity. (I’m pretty sure the tenses in those last few sentences are not right, but I don’t care. I don’t do this writing shit for a living anymore.) The takeaway lesson from those early days is this — Get over yourself.
