Working in America

I know that one of these days, the perfect job will land in my lap. Either that or my perfect job (writing and editing from home) will start to pay.

Right now I am staring at what is left of my last paycheck, which would have been my last paycheck even if I had stayed in Tampa, my husband's last paycheck, and the ever-mounting pile of bills. I knew I had 30 days to secure work. It is Day 13 and work seems to be very far off on the horizon.

My problem is that I'm too brainy. I know it all and if I don't know how to do it, I will once someone shows me and then please leave me alone to do my thing. Don't hover.

But people can smell wiseass on me and so my application/resume/CV/cover letter go to the bottom of the pile. "We will hire her if we're desperate." Because the know they would be miserable and so would I.

But this is how the Universe watches out for me. In a moment of panic, I walked into the local diner (where I worked 9 years ago before I left for Florida) and inquired about the "Help Wanted" sign in the window. I had asked before and had been told they needed a cook and so I pondered the possibility for a week because as I said, we need more income and less outgo. I explained that I had 10 years of experience cooking at various fine dining establishments and that I had, indeed, worked for the previous owner of that very diner. The woman, whom I suspect is the owner's wife, blinked and stuttered a bit before she said "we-we've uh we've found someone."

I knew in my gut that no way was she hiring a fat, fiftyish woman to work in her kitchen.

I couldn't help myself. I gave the smarmiest smile I could, and said "well, if it doesn't work out, let me know," and I left. Getting into the van I gave the boy a look and said, "bullshit." He laughed and agreed. He and I have great bullshit detectors.

Today, almost a week later, the sign is still in the window. And I KNOW don't want to go back to short order cooking unless it's the next thing before prostitution. And so I narrowly avoided yet another job that would suck. The Universe will steer me again toward something better and I will work diligently at getting my own gig off the ground because I swear I was not meant to work for people. Here's an example of why:

Today, we spent an hour driving to Palmyra, home of the founder of the Mormon faith, so my husband could interview for an assistant manager's position with Subway. The interview took almost an hour and they told him the job pays $7.15 an hour.

. . .

I know what goes into doing food service. I know what it is like to deal with employees who don't show up, don't do their jobs, are insubordinate, who tamper with people's food (you don't want to know) and who come in under the influence of alcohol or drugs. I know what it is like to deal with customers. What if the store is robbed? What if an employee injures him or herself? Seven dollars and fifteen cents to START? With no future? Eff that.

And it cost me $10 in gas just for the pleasure of waiting for poor Frank, who has over 20 years of experience in life and work, to be told that he is worth minimum wage to manage a crew of sandwich slingers. It would have cost about three dollars in gas back when I used to live here.

Oh well. At least something good happened today. I got a mattress and a box spring that won't go up the stairs and a rug for my dining room, courtesy of my mother and sister. (The movers lost my bed.) Life ebbs and flows.