I no longer buy movies on-demand. I buy the crappy toilet paper that is rough and saves me a whole 43 cents. Sometimes, I steal nasty organic toilet paper from a certain coffee house's bathroom. I no longer spend money unwisely on the weekends when I need to make myself feel better by purchasing my value in clothes. A hearty meal is a bowl of Progresso soup and a stick of gum. I thought I was living in poverty because I was a college student, until I realized my parents started buying the gross toilet paper, too.
Sure, these times are tough in America and at Madison. I've seen the recession hit our very campus with a noticeable drop in Ugg prevalence on Bascom Hill. Personally, I was enjoying the idea of a recession because I thought it would give me a legitimate excuse to self-loathe in the comfort of my parents' basement for at least three months after graduation, while my father worked to feed me and my cheese habit. But now it looks as if my white suburban dreams are shattered. My middle-class family will no longer be able to afford me.
This is what my father, Edward C. Spencer, claimed after I asked him to send me some computer paper to print out my homework and some resumes.
He denied my request and told me to go steal from a campus library. He then said when I moved back in, he hoped I might be the primary breadwinner. My mom works three days a week at a pre-school, and my younger brother works at a kids' jungle gym called Pump It Up"" on the weekends. Already, the competition was fierce; they make a whole eight dollars an hour, something I cannot fully wrap my head around.
My dad is a trader at the Chicago Board of Trade. And despite working for him one summer, I have no clue what he actually does besides jump around in a pit of men all wearing bright, multi-colored jackets, making sign-language gestures and yelling at each other. He watches the numbers on screens, slaps his own forehead and curses our Visa bill. The man works from 9:00-1:30, which is when the market is open. I've always considered going into the family trade for the hours alone. If only I could understand the concept of buying and selling, get over my fear of unflattering coats and learn basic math.
Because of the economy, my dad is thinking about getting a new job at the youthful age of 52. I suggested he aim high and apply at Starbucks or Old Navy, but it's my mom who's been making his coffee and folding his laundry for years, giving him no expertise in those careers.
""Would you show me how to make a resume?"" my dad asked, as he has been working at the Board of Trade since his college graduation and hasn't had to do anything like this since the '70s when he smoked weed and wore paisleys.
""Sure,"" I said, knowing full well it would take this man a good seven hours to type up this sort of document on an actual computer, if he could figure out how to turn one on first. Obviously, anything involving computers is out - from a Best Buy salesman to a Blockbuster guy to a librarian.
We discussed other places he could work. Food service was out, as T.G.I. Friday's wasn't hiring, plus cheap blue eye shadow is unbecoming on my father. Landscaper was out, as my father has never mowed our lawn, watered our flowers or trimmed our bushes. My dad thought he might be good at sales, so I asked him to give me a pitch and try to talk me into something.
""Buy this shit,"" my dad said in his gruff Chicago accent.
""Wow,"" I said. ""Convincing.""
It was at that point that I realized I was going to have to man up and help out my poor, starving family that can no longer afford to buy name-brand sneakers or laundry detergent. My dad couldn't sell a wig to a bald woman, my mom's too pretty and delicate to work more than three days and my brother's work routine involves jumping into a pit of rubber balls. My future has never looked so bright, at least in comparison. And that's a point of a family: to make you feel better about yourself.
If you'd like to give Ashley career tips, e-mail her at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
