Leave Me Alone, I Hate You

I don't care for money related activities. Borrowing, lending -- both horrible. I'm uncomfortable negotiating my salary, doing my taxes, even going to the bank. (I'm convinced I'll get robbed) I'm no good at games that involve money. I despise the host of Mad Money on CNBC, but who doesn't?! He needs to CALM. DOWN.

I don't even like that Pink Floyd song about money. It's creepy.

On some level, I think I blame money for my less than stellar resume. Must pay rent./Money pays rent./Jobs make money./Get a job! It's a vicious cycle...like dieting or STDs. And the jobs I've had? Yikes. I know, some people just love their jobs. They're out there right now -- all "fulfilled" by their work -- enjoying travel perks, health insurance, hot cubicle romances and the mysterious 401K. I'm just not one of them.

Don't get me wrong. I don't have room to complain. My jobs haven't exposed me to bullets or lethal carcinogens. (that I know of) Still, is it wrong to want more than that? For three decades, I've had nothing but tasks that left me to wonder...when is lunch?

And, worse yet, to have this exact conversation more times than I can count:

"How was your weekend?"

"Not long enough!"

"Don't I know it!"

It's as though the company motto is always "Let's Wish Our Lives Away in an Elevator!"

I wasn't always like this. I used to have ambition. A raw, money-driven lust that knew no bounds:

October 31, 1982

Today is Halloween but we celebrated it yesterday.

I asked my mom if I could have a job to do each week to earn some money. She said I could fold clothes. Now she says I can't because she doesn't think I can do it right. That shows how much she trusts me. For GOD'S SAKE! I'm 11 years old, not 5! It makes me so mad! The worst part of it is, I know I can do it. I wish she'd learn to trust me.

I'll have to try my best to find a different way to make money.

The desperation! It's a wonder I didn't become a hooker. This entry leaves me with several unanswered questions.

-- Why did we celebrate Halloween yesterday? Didn't people think we were odd knocking on their doors, demanding snacks while dressed in costume for no apparent reason?

-- Why did I need money? Did I have my eye on a stylish new training bra in the "intimates" section of the JC Penneys?

-- And was I really that bad at folding clothes?

Regardless, I've come to realize that some people have careers. Other people have jobs. Me? I have "jobettes". You don't look to get promoted at a jobette, you just look for another jobette.

Among the notable jobettes I've had over the years is a summer spent as an ice cream scooper. It left me with a freakishly large right forearm for a 15-year-old girl. Unexpected perk: I fell in love with a handsome, gay college man who waited tables in the cafe where I scooped. (I didn't know he was gay. At that point, I was still convinced I would one day marry George Michael and follow him on the next Wham! tour)

His name was Dave.

Dave was tall, blond and perfect. Well, not entirely perfect. He wore pink madras shorts. He was way too tan and always sweating out last night's hangover. I didn't mind. Dave was 19 (!) and he came from a romantic faraway place in Michigan called "Bloomfield Hills." He was willing to teach me how to drive in his very own Jeep. I still remember our long talks, the romantic things he'd say to me like: "Never do coke."

And I never did.

Years later, I moved to Los Angeles and got another whopper of a jobette. I was an assistant at a high powered talent agency for a year and 1/2, which I'm told is a really long time in assistant years. Turns out, it's not as glamorous as you might imagine (if that is the sort of thing you waste your imagination on).

The fear of missing an important phone call was overwhelming. God forbid you let it go to VOICE MAIL! You would get a verbal lashing that would break your insignificant soul. As a result, I would regularly put off going to the bathroom for the entire work day. Once, when my boss was out of town, I broke down and ran in for a quickie. When I came back, the dreaded red message light on.

"18 new messages..." the automatic ladyvoice said.

18?! How can there be 18 new messages?! I could feel the acid filling my stomach cavity.

The over-styled assistant who worked the desk next to mine was metrosexual way before Seacrest; we nicknamed him "Vanilla Weitz-Weitz, Baby" or "Nilly" for short. Nilly had seen me run into the restroom, and he took the opportunity to call my work line as many times as humanly possible in three minutes, say the word "vagina!" and then hang up. Good one! Of course, I had to listen to each and every message in order to make sure there wasn't a real business voicemail somewhere in middle of ALL those vaginas.

I miss that kid.

Yes, there have been countless jobettes, from waiting tables to coordinating television shoots with cannibals. One lateral move leading to another, and each leading me nowhere in particular.

My general jobette dissatisfaction really says more about me than it does about the duties at hand.

You see, jobettes are safe. You don't have to be that good at them because you never wanted to do them in the first place. Passed over for a promotion? Paid less than everyone else in the building? Well good! All the more reason to leave early. Jobettes are just what you do to get by until. Until! Until you do that amorphous-yet-exciting thing that you REALLY want to do. That thing that you're going to be so badass at that you will pretty much rule the world. What is it? Shhhh...keep it to yourself. Saying it out loud would only ruin the surprise triumph.

"I was her supervisor," all those nasty boss types will say, "her direct supervisor - do you believe that?!"

No.

They don't.

What to do until the "until"? Well, all I can say is: TGIF!