Not only is the frost on the pumpkin, the squirrels have eaten it beyond recognition. Winter is coming to New England, but thanks to a lot of rainy non-work days last month we are still out there, cutting back frozen day-lily leaves and stabbing winter greens into rock-hard planters.I have perfected my layering configuration, and keep a ready supply of hand warmers in my car.
Still, work days are numbered, so I've begun the ritual hunt for seasonal work. I live in an expensive state, a state which constantly boats a good economy, yet the job wages that are posted would not keep a teenager in school clothes. I am stunned (STUNNED) that whether I manned a cash register at a supermarket or supported an office of highly paid professional services staff, the difference in pay if any, would be minimal. I don't mind lower pay for a relatively easy job, but if you want to use all my mad skills, there is a price tag on that.
I was commiserating with a woman I know. She has an advanced degree, is an adjunct professor at a big-name college in Boston, has published a book, and she works part-time at a well-known clothier for $14 an hour to make ends meet. A clothier whose shirts routinely cost $100.
The other problem is that given my extensive job history I've become adept at decoding job postings, determining what exactly will make me hate the job, and how quickly. Some phrases that set me off:
"Bright, enthusiastic worker greeting people with a ready smile." I kid you not. Guess which gender usually holds the kind of job this description is attached to? Translation: "Be a nice and non-confrontational girlfriend surrogate for a bunch of fragile egos." Since when is it my job to make you feel good? What ever happened to a courteous, professional demeanor?
"A sense of humor is a must." Translation: "You will routinely be involved in our version of the Caucasian Chalk Circle, with you in the role of the baby. Be prepared to be pulled in several directions at once by rude, inconsiderate colleagues with a grossly overdeveloped sense of importance, or one high-level manager with a reputation as a Grade-A douchebag who can't be fired because he owns the place/makes us a lot of money. Also, you must make coffee and keep the break room stocked, brightly and enthusiastically, wearing a ready smile."
I will not make travel arrangements. This is for people either functionally illiterate in the online world, or who just can't be bothered, neither of which inspires. I have a terrible poker face/body language when being asked to perform pointless tasks for lazy people.
I will not work for less competent/professional people who make more money than I. So if your web site has typos or has clearly not had its content reviewed by a professional, or if you think it's really important for the public to know which health club you belong to, move along.
Lest you think I'm lazy (well, I am when I'm not engaged), I do apply for jobs with a reasonable commute, good working conditions, and reasonable duties.
But we haven't yet talked about age discrimination.
Age discrimination is the delusion that because I'm not under 35, I'm a doddering fool with no mental agility who thinks technology is proof that aliens exist. The reality is that I've adapted many, many times to a world constantly changed by technology, I don't live on my phone, and I understand that you don't look at your phone while on the job, or while someone is talking to you.
I read goddamned books. I READ.
I was encouraged by a posting by a well-known and respected nonprofit organization that operates fitness centers and residences, but while looking at the job description, a flag went up when I read a line about "enforcing policies even if disagreeing with them." Hmmm. Clearly this has been an issue, or why in the job posting?
Using my Old People Internet Skills, I found a copy of their Employee Handbook. They do not allow (among other things): "elaborate" hairstyles, visible tattoos, or facial piercings such as nose piercings. It should have just said, "Nothing that scares suburban white people." Made me want to dye my hair blue, get a "Mama Tried" neck tattoo, and show up in a suit. But Hey! You do get a half-hour lunch break!
I went to another job site for a package-delivery company where I was told there was a hiring fair. I had been told there was a hiring fair because I'd started an online application and didn't complete it, but was nonetheless stalked by this company that behaved like a needy ex-boyfriend. Emails reminding me to complete my application were replaced by voicemails encouraging me to apply, finally telling me of this "hiring fair."
When I hear the words "hiring fair" I envision a clean, bright conference room in neutral tones, tables staffed with smiling, overeager employers ready to win you over with logo-printed ballpoint pens and reusable shopping bags. Given the relentless pursuit by this company, I assumed they were desperate, and expected an enthusiastic welcome, a negotiable wage, maybe even free coffee and snacks (that's when you know you have them).
I went to the address given but found only a dingy distribution center with two haggard women in company sweatshirts manning the front desk. The younger one was too busy looking at her phone to acknowledge me (SEE??!!??) They had no idea about a hiring fair. Considering grimly that this was a sampling of my potential coworkers, I followed the older woman through swinging doors into the main warehouse, a place devoid of natural light and heat, barely illuminated by some weak, invisible fluorescents high overhead. (If you have seen the movie "Alien," I think I've discovered the inspiration for the Nostromo.) There were no balloons, no bright colors, no enthusiastic welcome.
No pens.
We turned left in the gloom, and I had to step over a conveyor belt to be led into the break room, where a guy named "Mitch" was supposed to meet me. The woman instructed me to wait, and left. The room was a small, airless, cold place of laminate tables with attached benches and a vending machine in the corner. Two men looked at me curiously. My mind turned to unmarked graves.
"Is one of you Mitch?" I asked. I was told no, but he would be right back.
I turned my attention to a poster with, among other things, the company dress code. This company also had the heebie-jeebies about tattoos, ears with more than one earring (women), earrings in more than one ear (men). Mustaches were allowed, but no beards or goatees. Apparently HQ was in a warmer climate that did not understand the protective benefits of facial hair in winter, or that mustaches went out with the pedophile/70s Porn Star fashion craze.
As I read the list of style prohibitions, a scene from the movie "Moonstruck" came into my head, specifically the phrase, "A wolf with no foot."
I took out my cell phone, went back into the dim warehouse cavern, clambered back over the conveyor belt, and re-entered the service area. I explained I'd just gotten an emergency text that I had to address, but I'd be back. I hustled to my car, drove out of the chain-link-and-barbed-wire-enclosed parking lot, and headed home.
A wolf with all her feet.
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