One step forward, two steps sideways
I haven't been posting much about what's been going on in my life lately, because blogging when things are going badly just makes me even more depressed. The last month or so made me grateful that cat macros don't follow you around in real life, because if they did, I'm sure there would be one above my head of a cat doing something dopey with the words "UR DOIN IT WRONG!" in large bold white letters.
But I feel that things are gradually starting to turn around. About ten days ago, I went to a DJ association meeting, set up by a connection. He couldn't go, he told me, but please call the meeting coordinators and tell them I sent you. I did, and they e-mailed me back with the restaurant address as well as their cell phone numbers.
So I get there about 15 minutes late because of my knack of taking wrong turns (and subsequently ending up in the middle of the Fort Lauderdale airport), but it's taken in stride. The coordinators are glad to see me, introducing me to everyone. "Everyone, this is Cynthia," says the DJ I spoke to on the phone.
"HI CYNTHIA!" says the room. I feel like I'm at an AA meeting.
There's about a dozen DJs there from various companies. I figure if I make one or two decent connections, I'm doing well. I do. I make friends with one of those whiz-kid types--at 19, he owns his own company. The next night he calls me, asking if I want to assist at a Latin night he's doing at a bar in Fort Lauderdale that Saturday night. Yeah, it's a freebie, but it's the freebies that help get your foot in the door, so I eagerly accept.
The gig turns out to be much ado about nothing--I think I end up spinning maybe five tracks. The bar is dead. The DJ plays barely any Latin music, which is just as well. He plays "Smack My Bitch Up" because that song makes a certain girl go into a trance and move like a robot. It's one of those things you can't really describe in a blog.
Also, his mother is a regular at this bar. I thought she was a patron screwing around with him, but no, she's really his mother. Ho-kay. She buys him an order of chicken wings. He tells me to help myself.
By midnight, he asks me to play a game of pool. I accept. I win one game on a technicality because he sinks the 8 into the wrong hole.
By 1am, the gig is done. Though I was led to believe the gig is a freebie, he offers to pay me anyway. I politely refuse, being I didn't do much, but he insists. I don't argue--I need the money. I'm thinking the $20 would help. Except he gives me a pile of singles. The paper around it says $50. He's giving me $50 for basically playing pool and eating chicken wings. (Well, upon counting it when I got home, it was $49. But I'm sure not going to quibble the dollar.) I'm stunned and again politely refuse it. Again, he insists. "Gas money," he says.
We end up talking for about an hour outside the bar. He tells me about a man who's trying to buy out his company--"a sheister" he says--but tells me he might be looking for an assistant. I get the number, call the sheister's company on Monday.
"Who the hell told you that?" he said when I called, but agrees to meet me anyway as he might be looking for a salesperson. I've never worked in sales, unless you count hustling lap dances as working in sales. Still, I go, because a foot in the door is a foot in the door.
As it turns out, he fired someone this week because of some personal problem. He might be looking for an assistant after all. He makes it quite clear I'm against two other people--one who has worked for him before--but we each have our own advantages and disadvantages, he says. My main advantage being I've had office experience.
The thing is, if I get offered this job, the pay absolutely blows ($9.50/hour) and the town is almost an hour from where I live, but again...it's a foot in the door. I may just take it. It's a way to get established. Or I may give the sales a go--it's commission only, he says (though parking and tolls are reimbursed), but knowing what the breeders in South Florida will happily pay for Madison's bat mitzvah, I may end up making a killing. Come to think of it, I wonder if selling overblown parties are really that different from hustling lap dances.
Meanwhile, I've been going on interviews at least three days out of five every week, ranging from the fairly hopeful to the patently absurd. I've posted my resume on CareerBuilder. I've actually gotten some calls back. I've been on some interviews. Something has to break through. Something has to.
Oddly enough, I don't regret moving down here. Because the alternative would be to wonder when the other shoe is going to fall at The Strip Club. Not knowing if I'll have enough funds to last me through the next few months is scary and depressing, but stagnation is even more depressing.
I feel like I can do this. Because something will break through.
P.S. Less than a week until my POM road trip.
But I feel that things are gradually starting to turn around. About ten days ago, I went to a DJ association meeting, set up by a connection. He couldn't go, he told me, but please call the meeting coordinators and tell them I sent you. I did, and they e-mailed me back with the restaurant address as well as their cell phone numbers.
So I get there about 15 minutes late because of my knack of taking wrong turns (and subsequently ending up in the middle of the Fort Lauderdale airport), but it's taken in stride. The coordinators are glad to see me, introducing me to everyone. "Everyone, this is Cynthia," says the DJ I spoke to on the phone.
"HI CYNTHIA!" says the room. I feel like I'm at an AA meeting.
There's about a dozen DJs there from various companies. I figure if I make one or two decent connections, I'm doing well. I do. I make friends with one of those whiz-kid types--at 19, he owns his own company. The next night he calls me, asking if I want to assist at a Latin night he's doing at a bar in Fort Lauderdale that Saturday night. Yeah, it's a freebie, but it's the freebies that help get your foot in the door, so I eagerly accept.
The gig turns out to be much ado about nothing--I think I end up spinning maybe five tracks. The bar is dead. The DJ plays barely any Latin music, which is just as well. He plays "Smack My Bitch Up" because that song makes a certain girl go into a trance and move like a robot. It's one of those things you can't really describe in a blog.
Also, his mother is a regular at this bar. I thought she was a patron screwing around with him, but no, she's really his mother. Ho-kay. She buys him an order of chicken wings. He tells me to help myself.
By midnight, he asks me to play a game of pool. I accept. I win one game on a technicality because he sinks the 8 into the wrong hole.
By 1am, the gig is done. Though I was led to believe the gig is a freebie, he offers to pay me anyway. I politely refuse, being I didn't do much, but he insists. I don't argue--I need the money. I'm thinking the $20 would help. Except he gives me a pile of singles. The paper around it says $50. He's giving me $50 for basically playing pool and eating chicken wings. (Well, upon counting it when I got home, it was $49. But I'm sure not going to quibble the dollar.) I'm stunned and again politely refuse it. Again, he insists. "Gas money," he says.
We end up talking for about an hour outside the bar. He tells me about a man who's trying to buy out his company--"a sheister" he says--but tells me he might be looking for an assistant. I get the number, call the sheister's company on Monday.
"Who the hell told you that?" he said when I called, but agrees to meet me anyway as he might be looking for a salesperson. I've never worked in sales, unless you count hustling lap dances as working in sales. Still, I go, because a foot in the door is a foot in the door.
As it turns out, he fired someone this week because of some personal problem. He might be looking for an assistant after all. He makes it quite clear I'm against two other people--one who has worked for him before--but we each have our own advantages and disadvantages, he says. My main advantage being I've had office experience.
The thing is, if I get offered this job, the pay absolutely blows ($9.50/hour) and the town is almost an hour from where I live, but again...it's a foot in the door. I may just take it. It's a way to get established. Or I may give the sales a go--it's commission only, he says (though parking and tolls are reimbursed), but knowing what the breeders in South Florida will happily pay for Madison's bat mitzvah, I may end up making a killing. Come to think of it, I wonder if selling overblown parties are really that different from hustling lap dances.
Meanwhile, I've been going on interviews at least three days out of five every week, ranging from the fairly hopeful to the patently absurd. I've posted my resume on CareerBuilder. I've actually gotten some calls back. I've been on some interviews. Something has to break through. Something has to.
Oddly enough, I don't regret moving down here. Because the alternative would be to wonder when the other shoe is going to fall at The Strip Club. Not knowing if I'll have enough funds to last me through the next few months is scary and depressing, but stagnation is even more depressing.
I feel like I can do this. Because something will break through.
P.S. Less than a week until my POM road trip.