Looking for work...

I came of age during the Clinton Administration, so it's no wonder why I always figured jobs were easy to come by. From the second I decided that I wanted a job, I got one. No sooner would I send my resume than I would land an interview, and thus land a job. It was like I was a bear and the jobs were salmon, swimming upstream...

Eh, the analogies ain't with me at this hour.

You get what I'm trying to say.

Anyway, at the moment I'm pretty much out of work.

Sure, I do temp jobs here and there, but nothing really pays the bills. I do promotions work, and the pay is good, but I don't see any money until almost a month after a gig. I bartend now and again, but those gigs are through friends and their bosses won't take me on as an actual employee since they know I'm headed to the Philippines soon. Teaching for the non profits paid decently, but I never knew when the paychecks were coming in - and, besides, the school year's over, so there's no pay to be had anyway.

I could go back to phone sex, but, honestly, the work bores me now. Sure, the calls are great fodder for bar conversations - but the "magic" has worn off. You know: the new car smell. Now, taking calls, it's all been there done that. And, besides, the pay's not as great as it used to be. [My previous employer tanked. Now I have to choose from phone services that don't pay as much per minute.]

So I've decided to try my hand at domming. Yes, that's right: being a dominatrix. The phone sex operator-cum-high school poetry teacher is now gonna assert her domination over men. Look hot doing it. And get PAID.

That is the plan.

A good friend of mine did it for a bit and although her experience was less than stellar, she recommended it for the pay.

The other part of the plan [and this plan is "Mission: (Maybe) Stay in NYC"] is landing a writing gig. I've got my eye on something that would be pretty big... I'll let you know what comes of it after all's said and done and I either get the gig or I don't. Right now, I don't wanna jinx it.

I figure, between a writing gig and a dom job (plus going back to Brooklyn College, looking into Physician's Assistance schools, and getting a part-time office gig), I'll have more than enough reason for staying in New York City and being pretty damn happy about it.

This is not to say, of course, that that's what I want. Entirely. But then, when do I ever know what I want, entirely? The answer: Not these days, that's for sure.


But back to the subject of work: I've been writing a memoir-like story about my experiences in the workforce. My very first *real* job was as an office assistant at a hospital in Long Island. I was 13. It was a paid volunteership. I'm not really sure why it was considered "volunteering", but I guess back then the word "intern" didn't ring as true to the powers that be.

Since then, I've amassed a startling array of professions. Allow me to list, off the top of my head, five jobs and at least one strange factoid of each.

1) Administrative Assistant to the President of a High End Real Estate Firm - There were only three of us in the office (including my boss, who owned the company). The 3rd guy was an E-list celebrity who scored a top 10 dance single in the 90s. I'd still be working there if he hadn't groped my ass. [His best friend was my boss's boyfriend; I knew if it came between me or him, she'd have to side with him.]

2) Phone Sex Operator - On my very first night, my last call was a guy from California. I spent about an hour and a half on the phone with him, talking about horse racing. Now, before you jump to conclusions - it was a perfectly ordinary and vanilla conversation. He told me about his deceased father and how much he missed him. He mentioned that they had planned to go to Vegas on his 21st birthday, but that his dad had passed away before he turned 21. And, somehow, we got to the topic of gambling, then the ponies, and before I knew it I was talking about my dad and how, when I was a kid, he took me to the race track. The caller and I seemed to share a genuine connection over jockeys and thoroughbreds. Then I killed it by asking him what kind of sex he's into. A rookie's mistake.

3) Cocktail Waitress - A guy came in every night, sat in my section and ordered a drink. I wouldn't have given it a second thought, only the bar was in an artsy-industrial part of town and this guy looked like money. Every night, he wore a pricey watch and a neck tie. He was young and attractive. And, no matter how crowded the place got, or how much the hostess would insist on him sitting at the bar (because the place also served food, and he'd be unnecessarily taking up space by taking a table), he'd bribe and charm his way into my section.

One night, he walked in just as I got on the floor for my shift. It was early and there were hardly any customers, so I decided to talk to him a bit. That's when he started asking me questions. I lied about where I lived, what school I attended, et al., and instead made friendly banter. He asked how much money I made working at the bar. I demurely side stepped the question. He made an offer. Since I was such a busy woman, with work and school and responsibilities, how about he pays me the same I would make on-shift? All I'd have to do is get someone to cover my area for an hour, and walk down the street to another bar with him. We'd talk and drink a bit, and I'd get paid... He ended up being the reason I got fired.

4) Sex Toy Reviewer - There was a penis ring that I reviewed once. It was silicone and had spikes in it. I thought it best to test it out thoroughly. So I used it with four different men, all of them having different penile and testicular girths. It was like I was Goldilocks and they were my bears. I had to figure out who fit the ring just right. [And, yes, I cleaned and sanitized the ring thoroughly between each use, thankyouverymuch.]

5) Intern at Penguin Publishers - While I was an intern at Riverhead/Putnam, I worked for publicity/promotions. Even so, my cubicle was in the enchanted and bitchy land of the editors, who were all inexplicably a hybrid of hipster-yuppie and named "Rachel." One Rachel in particular - the one in the adjacent cubicle - was a cunt with me. She went so far as to imply to someone that I was incompetent.

So what did I do?

On the day that I'd had it with her bitchiness, I made it a point to walk past her desk more times than usual. And every time I crossed her desk, I said under my breath (so only she would hear) in my most menacing growl, "I'm gonna cut this bitch."

She shut her trap after that.

But it was too late: I had realized that publishing, like all businesses, is more an industry than an artform. And I had written it off.

Like the rest of my misadventures in the land of the dollar, it wasn't for me. Not for the long haul, anyway.