Now I understand why my mother told her dentist's office to never, ever, ever again schedule her with the hygienist Jeanne. That was 20 years ago. It wasn't anything about her cleaning techniques, it was because of her relentless pessimism. I've been scheduling Jeanne for three years and although I'd indeed noted her contrarian streak, it wasn't so awful for me to purposely blacklist her.
Well yesterday I found out why my mother, as usual, had made a wise call all those years ago. Maybe it's because I'm currently between traditional jobs, trying to do something new and creative in my life, that I'm extra protective of my hopes and aspirations and approaching things with optimism. And that doesn't have anything to do with reading "The Secret" (which I never will). It's to do with being a naturally positive person. I believe that if you project what you want in your thoughts, you are more likely to put active energy into achieving your dreams.
All of which is to say I'm actively seeking employment as a writer or communications consultant. I emphatically do not want to work in another thankless administrative job for an oppressively inflexible corporate hierarchy, where personnel files are routinely padded with lies and negativities just in case they need fire you. (Um, yes, they actually do that, so please don't suggest I work as an HR person because that's the ultimate corporate sell-out.)
So Jeanne suggests doing xrays. I said no, because I'm currently uninsured and am paying for everything out of pocket.
"You're no longer with the Times?" she asked politely - yet with just a hint of glee that here might be an opportunity to hear all my misery.
Except, I'm not miserable, and I intend to keep it that way.
"No," I replied, "I left the Times in September. Everything is shrinking in the newspaper industry."
"Oh, it's terrible," she agreed. "So you asked for an exit package?"
"Exactly. And it's worked out quite well. I've been freelance writing for the Sun, but I'll need to find some kind of part time or temp job soon because they don't pay very much."
"Lots of people unemployed now," she noted as she nudged my head to one side and prodded open my mouth. "It's really hard. All those people losing everything. All those foreclosures. I know someone at Bear Stearns - who knows what will happen to him? But you'll be fine. You'll find something."
"I'm not worried," I mumbled, sensing that she was eager for a sign of desperate fear on my part. "One great thing about typing 125 words per minute is I can always find a job doing secretarial work if I'm desperate."
"What column did you write for the Times?"
"I didn't write a column. I was hired as the office manager and was also a freelance writer there."
"Oh, if you were an office manager, you can work anywhere!" she exclaimed, grabbing on to the administrative aspect. I'm sure she meant well, but secretarial is precisely what I'd like to avoid now.
"Yeah, and do shit work for the rest of my life," I replied, well aware that I sounded offensive and pugnacious. "For assholes," I added.
Jeanne likely has her own complaints as a dental hygienist, but I wonder if she knows just how awful it is working as a secretary or administrative assistant, as the jobs are now called. You have endless responsibilities with zero empowerment. I'd say 90% of those jobs mean working for assholes. Seriously, "The Devil Wears Prada" is not so far from the mark.
There are exceptions to the assholes, of course (there were even a few exceptions at the New York Times, but that didn't include the most recent bureau chief, unfortunately, who really did wear Prada). Years ago I had two great bosses at Pettit & Martin in San Francisco. But that was when I was when I was fresh out of college. I'd like to think I've pulled myself up a few rungs on the ladder since then. Jeanne wanted to make me feel like I haven't. Well I wouldn't let her. I wouldn't! I insist that I'm a few more rungs up the ladder now!
Calmly, I say, "I'd really like to get a job that allows me to employ my writing and communication skills."
Jeanne pulls me head to one side and forces my mouth open a bit wider as she picks away at my teeth. "But do you have any writing credentials?" she asked dubiously.
Aside from my Berkeley education? Apparently Jeanne hadn't heard the part about how I'd freelanced for the Times.
"I have a whole pile of clips and references," I said patiently. "That should help, but it's no guarantee." I began to doubt myself, and my plans. But then I rallied. I won't let her bring me down. I won't!
She scrubs away at my teeth. "Well you can always write in-house for WaMu. They need people to write their newsletters."
"I do know an executive mucky-much at Wachovia," I said. "He might know of an in-house newsletter writing job."
"There you go!"
"But that would be kind of boring," I concluded.
"Well you can't have everything."
"Well I'd like to try for something I'd really enjoy doing before I give up and write PR releases for megabanks for the rest of my life. The work I'm doing for the Sun is great. Unfortunately it doesn't pay very much."
"What's the Sun?"
"It's the local weekly here - there's three: Studio City Sun, Sherman Oaks Sun, Encino Sun. I've been covering local politics and stuff."
"Oh, yeah, I like that paper - but they don't deliver it to my house, so I have to pick it up at Jennifer's Coffeehouse."
I told her I'd ask my editor why they aren't delivering it to her street in Studio City.
Jeanne was still warming to her topic of my future career as an assistant. "You could go to a head hunter or a career consultant and they might have suggestions of places to apply that you might not have thought of."
That's actually not a bad idea, I thought. She's right.
But then she continued. "There're also agencies that help place personal assistants. You know, lots of people like celebrities need assistants need help assisting them with their lives, paying their bills, picking up their kids, picking up their laundry..."
Yeah, that's just what I had in mind! If I followed Jeanne's advice, I'd likely commit suicide before too long, my dreams glinting like shards of broken glass on the path behind me. My old bureau chief would attend the funeral, shaking her head sadly and remarking upon my inability to accept my station in life. "And to think she had aspirations of doing something more than picking up the mail for me downstairs!"
"How old are you now?" Jeanne asked at this point.
"29," I reply stubbornly. Sending her impatience, I concede, "Fortysomething."
Jeanne sighed. "Ageism is also a problem these days. That makes it even harder to find work." My mouth is firmly pried open, so I can't reply. I'm helpless against the vision of myself headed out to pasture, my usefulness to society over and done with, even though Social Security checks won't be arriving for another few decades. "But you'll be fine," she adds reassuringly. "You'll find something."
"Well, I can always move somewhere else for a job," I said, feeling increasingly hopeless. After all, I'm well aware of the competition for writing jobs in L.A.
"Yeah," Jeanne replied with a sigh of resignation, "but where else is there to live?"
I was astonished that Jeanne apparently lacked the imagination to consider anywhere other than Los Angeles as a desirable place to live. "Uh, Paris, Amsterdam, New Mexico, Boise Idaho..."
"Buenos Aires is supposed to be cheap," she suggested randomly.
"I don't want to live there."
"You'll be fine. You'll find something."
"No, I won't!" I suddenly screamed, jumping out of my chair as dental implements crashed to the walls and floor. "I won't find anything that I really want! That's what you're implying! I'm doomed to be a secretary or office manager or administrative or personal assistant or whatever you want to call those shitwork jobs for the rest of my life because, let's face it Jeanne, I'll just be lucky to find a job anywhere now, right? Right Jeanne? Isn't that right?"
Jeanne was cowering in the corner at this point, clutching at dental floss.
"It's okay if they don't deliver the Sun to my street," she said meekly. "Is that really what you're angry about?"
