Wednesday, June 29, 2005

As our president would say, mission accomplished

And in much the same fashion, this ejaculation is probably premature. But nevertheless, I have a 75 percent real job.

Real points

* Pays living wage (i.e. more than I made as a reporter)
* Involves a desk of my own and, possibly, a nameplate for the outside of my cubicle
* Does not involve scrubbing a public toilet, unlike my current "job"
* Could, in some way, lead to health insurance, braces, a haircut and an IPASS.
* Secret built-in promotion
* Free pens
* A lunch bell (unsure whether to file this under real or unreal)

Unreal points

* I am technically a temp
* I have absolutely no job security whatsoever, because I am technically a temp

But you know, we roll with the punches here at Loser Gets a Life. And toward the goal of getting a social life, I am making some progress. Once I have successfully disentangled myself from the home improvement hole, I will have weekends free to come see you and your hot sister (brother? Whatever.)

I also now have 14 percent more dignity!

I began training today and did loads of repetitive copy/paste/delete/transcribe crapola which is supposedly only a fraction of my job. But when someone who contracts with us popped in, the girl training me introduced my as her "backup." I'm sorry, but somebody in charge needs to enlighten her. She is not Mariah, I ain't the bitch's backup. My job title invokes the word "coordinator," and temp or no temp this irritatingly young professional with the conch piercing is done mopping shit.

That sounds sassy but if I'm going to climb out of this piss-hole I have to start asserting my own worth.

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

I may have judged Jilly, my account manager at the temp agency, a little harshly.

Yesterday she called me at 10 a.m. Predictably, I was in the throes of a soul-crushing headache and still lying in bed with a can of Pepsi pressed to my forehead. For once, this was not a result of what Alka-Seltzer refers to as "food and drink indiscretions" although I had dined on Coronas and chile relleno night before.

She told me a company was looking for someone to document-manage: basically proofreading contacts and streamlining the process of sending shit to people, blah-de-blah. You may think to yourself, my God that sounds boring. But that is exactly the point, friends. After having my innocence ripped from me by a brief career in watching firefighters pry bloody bodies from the wreckage of cars and receiving love letters from convicted sex offenders, I long for the boredom of being a human spellchecker and collating machine. And at nearly $12 an hour, the price is so, so right.

So I told her to go ahead and talk me up to these folks. She called the same day to tell me they were interested. That was yesterday. I interviewed this morning and may know tomorrow whether I got the job.

I had been pretty frantic up to this point, although you wouldn't be able to tell that from this blog. I still hadn't heard back from the makeup counter people and had planned on calling them nearly two weeks ago. But then I went to my next-door-neighbor's high school graduation party and who was there? Yes, my dear friend Open Bar.

The bounty of this bar was awe-inspiring. Ketel One, Bombay Sapphire, a gallon jar of olives promising many dirty martinis and its former inhabitants, stuffed with blue cheese and waiting to become soaked with vodka. (moan)

Add to this that I didn't have to worry about how I was getting home, and that made for more shitass drunkenness than I have indulged in in quite some time (cashiering doesn't exactly give a person with a $250 car payment much booze money).

Well, long story short, evidence indicated that I had finished a pretty rough vomit and somehow faceplanted on the bathroom floor, cutting the shit out of my lip inside and out. I woke up later on the pullout bed on a bloodsoaked pillow with a mysteriously wet T-shirt sleeve. I explored the damage with my tongue: I had miraculously spared all of my teeth, but cut a hole the size of a tic tac on the interior of my now very swollen lower lip. I just thanked the good Lord that I hadn't yet scored dental insurance and had braces applied.

Sparkling personality aside, I wasn't going to win over someone deciding whether I should man a makeup counter with that monstrosity on my already-mediocre face (I don't have a self-image problem, but I'm not the kind of person who naturally gets pumped for makeup tips, so to speak). So I haven't called.

I'm having all these fantasies about having weekends off and getting paid enough to do things. Watch for me coming to a town near you. And cross your fingers.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

This is a mighty fine explanation of why people need to quit bitching every time they act as consumers.

This whole cashiering thing does not pay well. I knew this going into it, and shockingly, it does pay better than my waitressing job. However, it was not to be my only job.

Ideally, I should have some sort of mindless data-entry, phone answering, smiley fuck day job now. I signed up with a temp agency about two months ago. My "account manager" is a bubbly 20-year-old we'll call Jilly who likes to "touch base" and "match [me] with job opportunities."

I tried to explain to Jilly that all I want from her is a temp job that pays $9+ an hour and is full time, Monday through Friday, nine to five, clerical. That to me sounds like temping in a nutshell, but what the fuck do I know?

Not to toot my own horn, but I don't know how many people in this relatively small metro area are signed up with this temp agency with a journalism degree, computer literacy, ability to type, customer service experience, at least three blazers and a goddamn working car. I think that puts me in a pretty small group. But apparently I am unqualified for any of their highly demanding letter-writing and shit-filing jobs.

Here is a typical phone interaction with Jilly.

PerennialFailure: Hello?
Jilly: Hi! Is (PerennialFailure) there?
PF: This is she. [It's my fucking cell phone. Who else would answer?]
J: Hi! This is Jilly from Shitass Temp Hole. [A fact I had already gathered, because as discussed, as I told Jilly, as one might gather from the fact that it is a long distance number, she is calling me on my cell phone.] Are you still looking for work?
PF: I am still looking for temporary clerical work during the day, yes.
J: OK, well I have a job possibility that may be a match for you here. It's temp-to-hire, in (a city that is in the next state), at a mailroom for a slaughterhouse, some clerical, some janitorial, a little bit of sausage casing. It's from 7:30 a.m. to 5:30 p.m. and you need to wear a suit. What do you think? [All of this is spoken the way an idiot speaks to someone who does not understand English.]
PF: [Ever hopeful.] What does it pay?
J: Seven dollars per hour.
PF: I make more than that at (home improvement behemoth).
J: Well, would you like me to send them a resume?
PF: Yes please.

One of the other girls that works there, lets call her Wanda, is less ridiculous but calls me with jobs that are even more ass-out. Such as, serving cafeteria-style banquets. At 5 a.m. Tomorrow. For $7 an hour and no tips. Thanks but no.

Wednesday, June 01, 2005

Yesterday's link has been fixed.