I won't pay I wont pay ya no way... now now... why don't you get a job,"" sings my recently semi-retired father on the phone to me. He's taking a two-month trial away from trading and it's his first real day off the job at home, and at only two o'clock in the afternoon, he's already called me six times today. Apparently, nagging me in the form of catchy songs circa '99 is his new unemployed hobby, along with not paying my mom's medical bills, taking my dogs for three walks a day and watching as many episodes of ""Cops"" as he can possibly find on our TV. Nothing brings my dad greater pleasure than sitting in his underwear and watching trashy people get handcuffed after drinking, beating their midget girlfriends, and going on a shooting spree.
My dad's recent decision to leave the workplace makes me feel all the more miserable about trying to find a job. A year ago, I had high hopes of writing at a nationally published magazine, working at a fast-paced celebrity PR firm, or writing a ""Dear Abby""-like column in which desperate, foolish people would write to me asking advice on everything from proper office etiquette to the right way to dump your once-built-now-obese husband after 15 years, both of which I have real life experience with.
Now, as I peruse the job postings I view on a daily basis, I am starting to consider careers I would have shat upon a year ago, sticking up my cute freckled nose in the air as if I were a stuck-up royal heir, complete with a crown, a massive sense of entitlement and a real golden spoon. The status of the economy has forced me to re-evaluate what's realistic, and in the process has crushed my dreams of doing anything remotely interesting. Now not only will I be low-class and subsisting completely on government cheese, but also uninteresting to the point where no normal man will want to date or try to sleep with me, which is what your 20s are really for, at least that's what I thought.
But today, a career as an egg-donor, a flag football referee, and a garbage woman all seem like legitimate prospects. I am looking to find a career that funds three things: one, a preferably non-insect-infested apartment in which I do not have to live with anyone that shares my bloodline; two, a collection of funky scarves; three, my obsession with drunk eBay purchasing. By simply reaching up and pulling one of my eggs out, I can already afford this hobby. But I can't help but feel any sense of pride in myself when I am attempting to write a cover letter highlighting my employable assets for a job centered on manicuring dog paws for a living at a high-end salon. All I can think about is how after four years of blue books, Adderall cramming and coffee-fueled reading, I'm sending in resumes for a bathroom attendant at bars and clubs. And even when dealing with the bathroom people HR, I can't land a $10-an-hour gig.
HR LADY: Do you have any experience wiping?
AS: I'm not sure how to respond to this. I think so?
HR: OK. Well, if hired, would you be willing to wash other people's hands?
AS: Yes, absolutely. I have direct experience with that skill as a former employee at Bath and Body Works. My hand massage skills rival that of the Japanese.
HR: While I think you might be a great fit near our toilets, I'm afraid we're under a hiring freeze, but we'll keep your resume if a shitter opens up. Thanks! (dial tone).
I wish there was a proposed colle student bailout that ensured anyone with a degree could get a job that required some skill and that the mere thought of doing it day after day didn't make suicide seem like an actually sunny option. Additionally, the plan should keep freshmen from majoring in useless fields. Screw AIG. I need help from someone besides a prescription-giving therapist. (shout out to Jackie at UHS!)
Perhaps I'm being over-dramatic, but I tend to fall into hysterics when thinking about anything that involves my lack of money and/or future, but the future freaks me out. But for now, all I can do is send out resumes I know no one is reading on random websites, while I sit in front of a TV watching some cops bust into a trailer home, as a guy in his tighty-whiteys runs out, trying to throw away his crack before the police catch him. But we're not so different: we both need new underwear, a job and a bailout.
If you'd like to hire Ashley to entertain you or do anything that's remotely legal, e-mail her at aygaspencer@wisc.edu.
