Girl For Hire
No, no. Not that kind of girl for hire. Although I did come dangerously close to some (tasteful?) nude modeling. Again, not what it sounds like. Let me explain.
You know how recovering addicts talk about hitting "rock bottom"? I never understood the weight of that phrase until very recently. Not that I've ever woken up in the back of a pick-up truck owned by some guy named Tiny, covered in tattoos and resting my cute blonde head on a sticky piece of paper that turned out to be a marriage license between me and the little guy. Not lately, anyway. But after a series well-documented rejections (often on this blog, other times over a stiff cocktail, even more times over the phone with a long distance friend), I was starting to lose hope. If it had been one month, three months, six months of looking for a full-time job I would probably still be able to wake up every morning and repeat the process. If I had to take a guess as to how many resumes, emails, cover letters, networking phone calls, coffees, etc. that I've poured my soul into in this crazy job search, I would estimate there've been over 300 attempts. Attempts at anything.
Finally, after a very big letdown (a publicity job in the music industry that would've been PERFECT for yours truly), I lost it. There was insomnia. There were tears. I have told people repeatedly that I feel like I'm going crazy. Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day (to be honest, I haven't seen it, but the trailer sort of gives it away. Barry Lyndon, it is not), I felt like I was reliving the same day over and over and over and over and...over again. That's enough to drive anyone insane.
Finally, on one very fitful night last week, I contacted my good friend, Rachel. She's a teacher and, in order to avoid the insanity of not working for the summer, has been taking a drawing class to fill her idle hours. She told me how the nude models make serious cash, and the wheels in my head started turning. We joked about it, of course, since I am quite comfortable with my...self, and wouldn't that be hilarious if I ended up making dough by holding a position in the buff for a few hours a week. Not a bad way to earn a living. It was all fun and games until that fateful Tuesday night, when in my sleepless, cloudy state I texted her asking for the school's phone number. A few glasses of Knob Creek and a couple of hours on the phone with a hunky fellow I know out in LA (it was late, all my friends here were asleep. And he gives great phone), I fell asleep as the late summer sun was rising.
And woke up to...a text from Rachel with the school's phone number. I got a knot in my stomach - had I really resorted to this? Maybe it would be kind of cool. I also went in that very day for an interview at an organic bakery on the Lower East Side, to be a cupcake froster (not as dirty as it sounds)-slash-counter girl. Maybe I could pull it off. You know, be one of those city types that does all sorts of funky odd jobs, making ends meet, going out on weeknights (more than I already do) because I work on weekends. It was oddly tempting. I mean, the problem of growing up in a yuppified home is that these possibilities never occurred to me before. It would be so bohemian, so very artsy of me. Right? Right?
As I was pondering all of this Wednesday evening, I got a call. Perhaps it was divine intervention - God, Buddha, my mother, whomever. But somebody or something out in this vast universe didn't want me stripping and frosting, because I had a real life, bona fide, exciting call for a great freelance job. Within 48 hours I started work. Without getting into the details (we can do that over dinner instead; your treat), it's working for a film festival here down in Tribeca. Not the Tribeca Film Fest, per se, but TFF is hosting/producing a short film fest that originated in Australia and is coming stateside. There are pretty much two people working in the NY offices and I, I am their right-hand woman. At least for the next week. And then, after a brief interlude in Los Angeles, I will come back and work with them through the festival at the end of September. Not a bad gig. It's definitely nice to know that I have somewhere to go come Monday morning. And I can wear clothes. I have to, in fact. I think there are laws.
Maybe my year of fuck-all, confusion, turmoil, and unrest is coming to an end. Come on, it's my turn! Don't worry - there's always still plenty of crazy fodder in my future. The neuroses I have won't go away overnight (if ever). Over a recent lunch with a good friend we both came to the conclusion: I am Woody Allen. With Boobs. This city and this life I choose to lead and all of this tsuris I bring on myself, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would I have any good material to make your internet surfing so enjoyable.
You know how recovering addicts talk about hitting "rock bottom"? I never understood the weight of that phrase until very recently. Not that I've ever woken up in the back of a pick-up truck owned by some guy named Tiny, covered in tattoos and resting my cute blonde head on a sticky piece of paper that turned out to be a marriage license between me and the little guy. Not lately, anyway. But after a series well-documented rejections (often on this blog, other times over a stiff cocktail, even more times over the phone with a long distance friend), I was starting to lose hope. If it had been one month, three months, six months of looking for a full-time job I would probably still be able to wake up every morning and repeat the process. If I had to take a guess as to how many resumes, emails, cover letters, networking phone calls, coffees, etc. that I've poured my soul into in this crazy job search, I would estimate there've been over 300 attempts. Attempts at anything.
Finally, after a very big letdown (a publicity job in the music industry that would've been PERFECT for yours truly), I lost it. There was insomnia. There were tears. I have told people repeatedly that I feel like I'm going crazy. Like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day (to be honest, I haven't seen it, but the trailer sort of gives it away. Barry Lyndon, it is not), I felt like I was reliving the same day over and over and over and over and...over again. That's enough to drive anyone insane.
Finally, on one very fitful night last week, I contacted my good friend, Rachel. She's a teacher and, in order to avoid the insanity of not working for the summer, has been taking a drawing class to fill her idle hours. She told me how the nude models make serious cash, and the wheels in my head started turning. We joked about it, of course, since I am quite comfortable with my...self, and wouldn't that be hilarious if I ended up making dough by holding a position in the buff for a few hours a week. Not a bad way to earn a living. It was all fun and games until that fateful Tuesday night, when in my sleepless, cloudy state I texted her asking for the school's phone number. A few glasses of Knob Creek and a couple of hours on the phone with a hunky fellow I know out in LA (it was late, all my friends here were asleep. And he gives great phone), I fell asleep as the late summer sun was rising.
And woke up to...a text from Rachel with the school's phone number. I got a knot in my stomach - had I really resorted to this? Maybe it would be kind of cool. I also went in that very day for an interview at an organic bakery on the Lower East Side, to be a cupcake froster (not as dirty as it sounds)-slash-counter girl. Maybe I could pull it off. You know, be one of those city types that does all sorts of funky odd jobs, making ends meet, going out on weeknights (more than I already do) because I work on weekends. It was oddly tempting. I mean, the problem of growing up in a yuppified home is that these possibilities never occurred to me before. It would be so bohemian, so very artsy of me. Right? Right?
As I was pondering all of this Wednesday evening, I got a call. Perhaps it was divine intervention - God, Buddha, my mother, whomever. But somebody or something out in this vast universe didn't want me stripping and frosting, because I had a real life, bona fide, exciting call for a great freelance job. Within 48 hours I started work. Without getting into the details (we can do that over dinner instead; your treat), it's working for a film festival here down in Tribeca. Not the Tribeca Film Fest, per se, but TFF is hosting/producing a short film fest that originated in Australia and is coming stateside. There are pretty much two people working in the NY offices and I, I am their right-hand woman. At least for the next week. And then, after a brief interlude in Los Angeles, I will come back and work with them through the festival at the end of September. Not a bad gig. It's definitely nice to know that I have somewhere to go come Monday morning. And I can wear clothes. I have to, in fact. I think there are laws.
Maybe my year of fuck-all, confusion, turmoil, and unrest is coming to an end. Come on, it's my turn! Don't worry - there's always still plenty of crazy fodder in my future. The neuroses I have won't go away overnight (if ever). Over a recent lunch with a good friend we both came to the conclusion: I am Woody Allen. With Boobs. This city and this life I choose to lead and all of this tsuris I bring on myself, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Nor would I have any good material to make your internet surfing so enjoyable.
posted by Chaden at 11:58 PM
1 Comments:
Oooh, so I finally check in and the first post I read finds you with a job! Congrats my dear, one step closer to a foodie for Vogue!
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