Son of a bitch, even the elk are blinged out.  What is the world coming to?

Many of you have probably stumbled upon the website About.com during your daily internet routine at least one time or another.  It’s a very useful website that offers advice and instruction on pretty much anything. 

Anyway, at the bottom of the site’s main page is a little link that says ‘Be a Guide.’  When you click on this link, you find out that normal people are the ones who write the content you see about anything from Ab exercises to flossing your teeth and they get paid for it!  There is an ever-changing list of available topics, and anyone can apply.  All you have to do is pick which topic you would like to write about, tell the site about your writing experience, yourself, and why you would be qualified to write about whatever topic you chose.  If they pick you they ‘test-drive’ you and several other applicants and then pick the best person for the job.  If you get picked you get to start a little page about your topic, and must write a minimum of one post every two weeks and you can make $750 a month!!  More if you get lots of views on your page! 

I thought this was awesome, and saw that one of the available topics was ‘Herb Gardening.’  Being the avid gardener I am, and considering my intense personal interest in herbs (mostly weed, but I can appreciate oregano and basil and all that too!) and gardening, and using various herbs for cooking, AND the fact that I can write (I think I can, at least- even though this is turning into one hell of a run-on sentence) I decided maybe I would get a chance to be a ‘Guide.’ 

So I sent in my little application and a writing sample and was promptly rejected by the powers that be at About.com.  How sad!  Apparently they’re looking for ‘professional’ writers. 

I’m sick of the word ‘professional’ because instead of meaning ‘an expert in that field’ all it really means is ‘has previously been paid for said activity.’ Well, I may not have been paid for my writing ever, but I happen to be a multi-faceted professional.  I am a Professional Reader, Typist, Researcher, Bullshitter, Small-talker, Phone-answerer, Planner, Gardener, Cleaner, Chef, Customer Service Ass-Kisser, Color Coordinator, Shopper, Money Saver, and Job Applicant.  I also happen to be a Professional Self-Proclaimer… meaning that I have the magical ability to turn instantly from someone with a hobby into a self-named Professional.  So kiss it About.com.  I may continue applying to be a Guide- if you’re lucky- but in the mean time I have an informational Herb Gardening Blog to create.  I may not receive a hefty paycheck for doing it myself, but since I was excited to try it anyway I’m going to do it all by myself- so there.

I could go on and on about this, but I’m sure it’s been done before… so I will make this a short rant.

1.  Why did I think I would have no trouble at all getting a grown-up job after college?  Oh that’s right… because everyone SAID I would, like it was some kind of guarantee!!

2.  How come only the trashiest, most rude and poorly dressed, unprofessional assholes get the best jobs at my County’s courthouse?  You know, the place that has the best starting pay rate, the best benefits, and gets every holiday off.  I guess you have to have a gang tattoo on your wrist and smell like alcohol to qualify to local government jobs in my hometown.

3.  Since when do you have to have 79 years of experience to be a good secretary??  Can’t you just be naturally organized and detail-oriented??

4.  Why on God’s green earth am I working in a shit-hole, raccoon-infested greenhouse and getting treated like crap for $9 measly dollars an hour and no benefits when I spent close to $80,000 on college tuition?? 

5.  Why am I spending all this time and money producing the most perfect resumes on the nicest cream colored paper and pretty much writing my cover letters with a goddamn quill pen using my own blood and not getting ONE phone call back. 

I don’t mean to be snotty, and I don’t think this is snotty… but whenever I go somewhere for personal business or something and see people working my dream jobs (secretary, human resources, anything in an office that doesn’t involve fertilizer or rose thorns) they are rude, look like crap, and don’t even DO anything that really takes any amount of talent or expertise?!  I could do these jobs too!  I could be the perfect secretary, the ideal Human Resources Assistant, even a reliable Call Center Representative!!  I’m not asking for the next position as CEO or even anything that would get me my own phone extension.  All I want is a job that pays double digits and hour and maybe offers benefits so I can go get my shitty old glasses replaced!!!  Why did I go to college if all I had to do to get one of these jobs is wear poor fitting clothing from Sirens and get a couple of visible tattoos and a bad attitude???

Since I have returned to my hometown, I work at my old job (a florist).  They were kind enough (desperate) to take me back, and it is nice to come home and be able to start working right away.  I have made it clear to them that I am only working there until I find something else (better) that offers medical benefits and doesn’t involve slave-style duties.

Anyway, other than the usual crap that takes place at that hellhole, I also got to witness one of the biggest shit-shows know to floral shops everywhere: Valentine’s Day.  Since most men do not understand the concept of planning ahead, we were very slow the week before the dreaded day… and the atmosphere was similar to the feel on a beach before a horrific storm, quiet lapping waves of the sea gently tapping the shore before a tsunami.  We prepared the balloons, decorated some azalea plants, memorized the holiday prices, and ordered about a million roses. 

Then came February 13th, the phonecalls began… and they did not stop.  Men calling, leaving it up to me (who could care less) to decide what they should send their girlfriends/ wives for the holiday.  Trying to make small talk as I read off prices of roses and other dumb arrangements that are just going to die in a week anyway.  I convince them to add a balloon, or a stuffed animal, or even an overpriced box of chocolates.  Most men just want a dozen red roses- how very original!  The florists (the one’s who actually make the arrangements- I just take the orders) are abuzz- and by abuzz I mean violent and bitchy.  Snapping everytime I place another invoice on their workstation- yelling that they need a second choice in case they run out of the first, demanding I slit my wrists and flail on the floor to redeem myself.  Well, not really- but they were really mean.

Then the 14th.  I wake up and suddenly know what a death row inmate feels like on his or her big day.  Dreading it, but somewhat releived that all of it is almost over.  I dragged myself to work, trying to meditate and create a calm atmosphere while driving through the type of traffic that only a certain type of neighborhood (shitty) can generate- people walking down the middle of the street, no turn signals, old rust-buckets broken down and taking up a whole lane, and a crater-sized pothole ever 4 meters. 

I pull into work and am immediately yelled at, for no reason at all, and have to start answering the phones before I even get my coat off.  There is a line of loser guys outside the door already, the florists are on suicide watch, and everyone is generally pissed off. 

It was awful, but like many trauma victims, the details of my abuse are fuzzy- I think I’ve blocked it out.  But it sucked, I have worked retail for 11 years now and through all the Christmases, spring blowout sales, and Mother’s Days I have never seen anything like it.  We all survived, but a little piece of me died that day- and my husband will never have to get me a Valentine’s Day present ever again.  And a note to all you men out there- don’t walk into a florist and think you’re cute and sweet for remembering, and expect us to give a shit about you, your girlfriend, whether or not she likes roses, or comment about the prices… we just see you as a hurdle, and want to get over you and move on the the next one as quickly as possible.  Pick your flowers, pay, and get out before you get hurt.

I need a new job in a bad way.