(no subject)
Today I spent a few hours scouting for a part-time job. Something, anything, to get me out of my mother's house nights and weekends. Earlier this week I applied at the local Blockbuster, which is scandalously understaffed, by filling out a very thorough online resume followed by a 37-page personality test. Five pages of questions, 32 pages asking those same questions in a different order, or with the wording slightly changed, designed to weed out the lazy, the late, and the light fingered. A visit with the manager this morning revealed that he is so busy running the store all by himself that he doesn't have time to review applications or conduct interviews.
So I combed the newspaper and went to the mall to fill out applications for Merle Norman, FYE, and JC Penney. The first two were old-fashioned paper apps that instruct you to fill it out with an ink pen in your own handwriting, because the first qualification is literacy. I took them to the coffee shop because it takes me a lot of time to write legibly. After all these years of typing my fingers can barely grip a pen correctly. Merle Norman's manager was a snooty little thing who might just be desperate enough to hire me as a last resort. I will be more than happy to work with the bitch just to be near the cosmetics. I was among the approximately 50 mazillion hopefuls to turn in an FYE application to the unimpressed but still polite manager.
I only went in JC Penney to use the restroom, but ended up chit-chatting with a girl all alone at the service desk who giddily confessed that it was only her second day. As I turned to go she said "Hey, you don't know anyone who is looking for a job, do you?" and I turned with a smile to confess that was the purpose of my visit to the mall. She was completely floored by this revelation. At the time, I chose to interpret that as amazement that a fabulous creature such as I would ever seek work in that mall. Now I'm wondering if she didn't strike up that exact conversation with every person she saw today and I was the first one to bite, garnering her a referral bonus of some kind. I miss the naivete of my all-consuming narcissism.
I don't know if I'll get any call-backs. The fact that I sold books in that mall for three years may not balance out the past six years as a lofty desk-monkey making triple the hourly wage they are offering. I'll be written off as overqualified, or a flight risk. Then my Mom will call each of the managers who refuse to hire me and demand that they explain in detail exactly why they don't want me so that she can later berate me for those faults.
The most intriguing classified ad read:
HIRING ESCORTS.
$1500+ per week
Classy, fun-loving
girls only. Call #
Naturally, I called. My ex-boyfriend, Big D, had a sister who worked as an escort in Orlando and she said it was mainly going on dates with old guys and the first requirement was big tits. I am currently blessed with large breasts (chock full of nutritious milk!), I am a great date, and I could be happy making $1,500 a week hanging out with old guys instead of my mother. I called my friend Abby Normal first, to see if she had any knowledge of the escort business. She didn't know anyone who had tried it before, but we agreed that it would be a valuable learning experience. She applied for the phone sex job last year when we decided that would be interesting, so I called the escort service.
Some random girl answered the phone. When I told her that I was calling in response to the ad, she asked "Do you have work experience?" and I replied, "No. Well, I have worked before, just not as an escort." She told me to hang on, she would get her boyfriend, because he ran the escort service. When the guy got on the phone he sounded nervous and young. He also asked if I had any "work experience" and I repeated the answer I gave his girlfriend, so he clarified that he wanted to know if I had worked as a dancer, and I said no. "I just saw the ad in the paper," I said, "and I wanted to know more about it. Does it just involve going on dates or do I have to take off my clothes?", which was his signal for going into a long, long spiel about how I would be an independent contractor, I would have to sign an agreement that they were not liable for any of my actions, and if they found out I was doing anything illegal my contract would be terminated immediately. Beyond that, it was up to me. I was not required to do anything that I didn't want to do and would not have to work with clients who made me uncomfortable on the phone or in person. I could work as many days or hours per week as I wished.
I asked what kind of clients I could expect to meet, and he answer that I would mostly be contracted for bachelor parties looking to see some "titty dancing." For real, he said "titty dancing." Had I at least done that? I had to confess that I had not. When he asked if I was available to meet with him today I demurred. "Thanks for the information. I'll think about it and get back to you if I'm still interested."
I'm not showing these bodacious ta-ta's to anyone. The price of my big breasts was big stretch marks and I don't look so good any more without my clothes on. These days I even wear a camisole or corset during sex so I don't feel self-conscious about my belly and boobs while I'm trying to get off. But even with a perfect body the escort thing would probably not work out for me, if only because I know that if my parents, or Casey's parents, or even Casey himself, who has become strangely prudish and possessive about my status as The Mother of His Child, found out that I was stripping in any way, shape, or form they would do all in their power to remove my daughter from my custody, and then I would have to kill them and/or take her to another country.
The only reason it tempts me is that it would give me the excuse, and the money, for all the plastic surgery I long to have. If I could justify the expense I would get the mother of all liposuction jobs, a tummy tuck, a breast lift, and removal of all the unsightly skin hanging from my arms, thighs, and neck. I would also love to have laser hair removal from neck to toes, and hell, why not have permanent eyeliner tattooed while I'm at it? It would be worth a lot of money to me if I could roll out of bed looking good every morning. But it isn't worth depriving my daughter of a decent life, so I'll just have to save that money and fantasize about miracle surgery while I wait for my body to bounce back the slow, torturous way.
So I combed the newspaper and went to the mall to fill out applications for Merle Norman, FYE, and JC Penney. The first two were old-fashioned paper apps that instruct you to fill it out with an ink pen in your own handwriting, because the first qualification is literacy. I took them to the coffee shop because it takes me a lot of time to write legibly. After all these years of typing my fingers can barely grip a pen correctly. Merle Norman's manager was a snooty little thing who might just be desperate enough to hire me as a last resort. I will be more than happy to work with the bitch just to be near the cosmetics. I was among the approximately 50 mazillion hopefuls to turn in an FYE application to the unimpressed but still polite manager.
I only went in JC Penney to use the restroom, but ended up chit-chatting with a girl all alone at the service desk who giddily confessed that it was only her second day. As I turned to go she said "Hey, you don't know anyone who is looking for a job, do you?" and I turned with a smile to confess that was the purpose of my visit to the mall. She was completely floored by this revelation. At the time, I chose to interpret that as amazement that a fabulous creature such as I would ever seek work in that mall. Now I'm wondering if she didn't strike up that exact conversation with every person she saw today and I was the first one to bite, garnering her a referral bonus of some kind. I miss the naivete of my all-consuming narcissism.
I don't know if I'll get any call-backs. The fact that I sold books in that mall for three years may not balance out the past six years as a lofty desk-monkey making triple the hourly wage they are offering. I'll be written off as overqualified, or a flight risk. Then my Mom will call each of the managers who refuse to hire me and demand that they explain in detail exactly why they don't want me so that she can later berate me for those faults.
The most intriguing classified ad read:
HIRING ESCORTS.
$1500+ per week
Classy, fun-loving
girls only. Call #
Naturally, I called. My ex-boyfriend, Big D, had a sister who worked as an escort in Orlando and she said it was mainly going on dates with old guys and the first requirement was big tits. I am currently blessed with large breasts (chock full of nutritious milk!), I am a great date, and I could be happy making $1,500 a week hanging out with old guys instead of my mother. I called my friend Abby Normal first, to see if she had any knowledge of the escort business. She didn't know anyone who had tried it before, but we agreed that it would be a valuable learning experience. She applied for the phone sex job last year when we decided that would be interesting, so I called the escort service.
Some random girl answered the phone. When I told her that I was calling in response to the ad, she asked "Do you have work experience?" and I replied, "No. Well, I have worked before, just not as an escort." She told me to hang on, she would get her boyfriend, because he ran the escort service. When the guy got on the phone he sounded nervous and young. He also asked if I had any "work experience" and I repeated the answer I gave his girlfriend, so he clarified that he wanted to know if I had worked as a dancer, and I said no. "I just saw the ad in the paper," I said, "and I wanted to know more about it. Does it just involve going on dates or do I have to take off my clothes?", which was his signal for going into a long, long spiel about how I would be an independent contractor, I would have to sign an agreement that they were not liable for any of my actions, and if they found out I was doing anything illegal my contract would be terminated immediately. Beyond that, it was up to me. I was not required to do anything that I didn't want to do and would not have to work with clients who made me uncomfortable on the phone or in person. I could work as many days or hours per week as I wished.
I asked what kind of clients I could expect to meet, and he answer that I would mostly be contracted for bachelor parties looking to see some "titty dancing." For real, he said "titty dancing." Had I at least done that? I had to confess that I had not. When he asked if I was available to meet with him today I demurred. "Thanks for the information. I'll think about it and get back to you if I'm still interested."
I'm not showing these bodacious ta-ta's to anyone. The price of my big breasts was big stretch marks and I don't look so good any more without my clothes on. These days I even wear a camisole or corset during sex so I don't feel self-conscious about my belly and boobs while I'm trying to get off. But even with a perfect body the escort thing would probably not work out for me, if only because I know that if my parents, or Casey's parents, or even Casey himself, who has become strangely prudish and possessive about my status as The Mother of His Child, found out that I was stripping in any way, shape, or form they would do all in their power to remove my daughter from my custody, and then I would have to kill them and/or take her to another country.
The only reason it tempts me is that it would give me the excuse, and the money, for all the plastic surgery I long to have. If I could justify the expense I would get the mother of all liposuction jobs, a tummy tuck, a breast lift, and removal of all the unsightly skin hanging from my arms, thighs, and neck. I would also love to have laser hair removal from neck to toes, and hell, why not have permanent eyeliner tattooed while I'm at it? It would be worth a lot of money to me if I could roll out of bed looking good every morning. But it isn't worth depriving my daughter of a decent life, so I'll just have to save that money and fantasize about miracle surgery while I wait for my body to bounce back the slow, torturous way.