Yet Another Rant About the Job Market

I can remember, two years ago, at almost this exact time of year, searching the classifieds in no less than four newspapers, and having to rifle through page after page of ads.  Now, in the major publication of RI, the only available employment options fit into one tiny column, most of which were in the medical field, subsequently leaving most of Rhode Islanders unqualified.  

Thankfully, craigslist has come to the rescue, in a manner of speaking, giving the whopping 10% a glimmer of hope.  The only catch is that at least half of these postings are part-time, a quarter of the remaining opportunities are bogus "review ads for money" jobs or upon sending an email attached with a resume, you're directed to postyourresumehere.com.  No, I'm not kidding, it does exist, and when you try to actually post your resume there, you are redirected (again) to monster.com.  Is it one big gigantic commercial ploy from monster?  Who knows.  Is it incredibly frustrating and annoying to those wishing to actually find gainful employment?  Absolutely.

I recently applied to a local vineyard for an office job, something I've essentially been doing for the past three years (so glad that English degree is coming in handy).  When I called a few days later to make sure they received my resume, they told me they're received over 200 resumes and would call in a couple days to schedule interviews.  The next day, I received an email stating the amount of resumes they were sifting through and while they appreciate my interest, they felt my employment background didn't suit their needs.  Really?  It's an office job.  They stated the requirements were to answer phones, manage mailings, organize files, update lists, and be well-versed and proficient in standard computer office programs.  I have done all those things and have been doing them, as previously stated, for nearly the past three years.  How does this background not suit their needs?  I'm curious.  Someone please tell me.  

In order to keep myself from going insane, I maintain a positive attitude, that each day is going to be better.  Tomorrow will bring an opportunity.  My first real job out of college didn't come until February of the following year.  I applied, on a whim, in October and heard nothing until the end of January, and ended up working there for six months.  So, while this recent disappointing showing of job offerings is a bit frustrating, I sigh heavily to release the tension, smile, and tell myself that next week is going to be my week.  Next week.

It's Facebook, NOT the Meaning of Life

http:​/​/​www.​ time.​ com/​time/​arts/​artic​le/​0,​8599,​18771​87,​00.​ html

The above​ link will take you to, what i can only assum​e,​ is some kind of socia​l comme​ntary​ on how faceb​ook has grown​ past the epide​mic stage​ and into the just plain​ absur​d.​ I, like many of the first​ gener​ation​ of faceb​ooker​s,​ still​ wish it hadn'​t grown​ to myspa​ce stand​ards where​ anyon​e and their​ mothe​r can join (and my mothe​r has, in fact,​ recen​tly joine​d)​.​ Remem​ber those​ days,​ when you had to have a legit​imate​ colle​ge-​assoc​iated​ email​ addre​ss to join?​ When you waite​d for your schoo​l to final​ly be accep​ted on faceb​ook so you too could​ join and be cool?​ When you could​ link to peopl​e who were in your class​es so, if you were like me, "​accid​ental​ly"​ misse​d class​ on any parti​cular​ day, you knew what chapt​ers to read,​ or when to polis​h your final​ excus​e as to why your paper​ wasn'​t ready​.​ Those​ were the days.​ 

Like most of you, I was recen​tly tagge​d in sever​al "25 Thing​s You Didn'​t Know About​ Me" notes​,​ and also like most of you, I wrote​ my own. The autho​r of the afore​ menti​oned "​artic​le,​"​ and i use that term very loose​ly,​ state​s that the facts​ peopl​e menti​on in their​ notes​ are stupi​d and not worth​ menti​oning​ at all. At this point​,​ I have to ask her, "​what did you expec​t?​"​ Are you looki​ng for thoug​ht-​provo​king,​ pains​takin​gly insig​htful​,​ and altog​ether​ aston​ishin​g revel​ation​s?​ It's faceb​ook.​ It's a socia​l netwo​rking​ site where​ peopl​e can post pictu​res of the stupi​d thing​s they do over vario​us weeke​nd adven​tures​ and assor​ted holid​ay break​s.​ 

But, unlik​e the autho​r,​ I found​ the hilar​ity in my frien​ds'​ revel​ation​s.​ I found​ it amusi​ng to learn​ that my frien​d hid in a box dress​ed as a dead perso​n in order​ to scare​ someb​ody at a sleep​over.​ I actua​lly did LOL when i learn​ed that a girl my frien​d punch​ed in the vagin​a in kinde​rgart​en is now a lesbi​an.​ I all but peed in my pants​ when I read that anoth​er frien​d kille​d a bunny​ she tried​ to rescu​e becau​se she rolle​d over on it while​ she was sleep​ing.​ 

While​ I can appre​ciate​ the absur​dity that comes​ with most,​ if not all, of the state​ments​ peopl​e procl​aim,​ I have to wonde​r why the autho​r of the artic​le felt it was of absol​ute impor​tance​ to comme​nt on it. Does she not reali​ze that her artic​le is just as absur​d?​ At no point​ did she herse​lf revea​l anyth​ing poign​ant or thoug​ht-​provo​king,​ which​ is what she asked​ of the faceb​ooker​s she so ferve​ntly chast​ised.​ And at no point​ did she make any conne​ction​ betwe​en these​ "25 Thing​s.​.​.​"​ notes​ and the waste​ of stand​ard work days,​ other​ than to menti​on that colle​ctive​ly,​ about​ 800,​000 hours​ were spent​ over the past week writi​ng these​ notes​.​ So why, I have to ask, does she care so much?​ If this is such an offen​se to every​thing​ she belie​ves in, why doesn​'​t she just cance​l her accou​nt?​ Probl​em solve​d.​

You’ll Sit There and You’ll Like It, Now Shut Up and Eat Your Stupid Food

Is it me, or have people just started to suck a lot lately?  Maybe I’m just upset because my post-collegiate life isn’t everything I hoped it would be, or maybe I’m projecting my fear of reaching the mid-20s onto unsuspecting people who have no connection to my life whatsoever, or maybe I’m just bitter because they get to enjoy fine, quality seafood and I get to stand around for ten hours, covered in ketchup and clam juice, sweating like Rosie O’Donnell when she wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes she’s just a big, scary lesbian with little to no fame at all.  Whatever the reason is, I’ve noticed an influx of baby-boomers and the slightly younger yuppie generation who really just, honest to blog, suck at life. 

When you go out to eat, you’re basically saying to the world, I really don’t feel like cooking tonight, I want to treat myself to a nice meal and just enjoy my evening.  Correct me if I’m wrong, but doesn’t that imply you should be in a good mood?  Shouldn’t you be projecting an air of happiness to the world?  So why is it that every other person or couple that comes into the restaurant I work in seem to have the worst case of hemorrhoids ever.  They walk in like their anus is bleeding and I have the magic cream and some latex gloves.  Oh here, let my rub that on there for you.  How’s that feel?  Oh nay nay, my little maggots, that is not my job.

I have the lucky task to showing these muff-chomping ingrates to their table, and then, the real fun begins.  It starts out like any normal relationship, with a pleasant greeting, a smile, and usually a slight tilt of the head.  “Hi, how are you?”  If they respond and then ask how I am doing in return, it’s usually a good sign.  Of course, working in the heart of a tourist town, getting any sort of acknowledgement of my humanity is slim, at best.  People are too wrapped up in their own pathetic, dreary lives to even realize that when you go out to eat, you’re actually going to someone else’s office.  Once we’ve established how many are in there party, and they’ve debated for a good twenty minutes on whether or not they want to eat outside, and then another thirteen minutes on in the sun or in the shade, I offer them whatever table I have available. 

Then comes the first fight in our relationship.  It’s awkward and weird, and you’re not really sure how far to push the boundaries.  You try to keep it civil and polite because you’re really not trying to be mean, you’re just trying to explain that you’re doing all you can and you really do care about them and their well-being.  But do they acknowledge that?  Of course not.  Apparently the whole world revolves around them and their crunchy hair (hi, yeah, the 80s are gone and they were ridiculous while they were here, that’s why Vh1 made a nine hour special solely dedicated to mocking the stupidity of their fashion trends and hairstyles).  This table isn’t the one that they picked out on their three second stroll to the hostess podium.  Explaining why I don’t have that particular table available even when it’s empty and all set up is a tricky thing.  Basically, when I’m telling you it’s not available, it means I just sat three tables in that server’s section and I’m trying to give them a break.  Hey, genius, there’s a reason I didn’t put you at that table, think about it.  I know it hurts and you can’t really juggle walking AND thinking at the same time, god forbid we throw in a little gum chewing and a hair flip, but sit in the stupid chair, take the damn menu and leave me alone. 

Once they’ve finally settled in and I’ve explained, slowly and with small words, that the specials are on their table and the wine list is in the back of their menus, my job should be done.  I should just head back to my podium, mark down which table they finally ended up at, and then wait for the next group of teet-suckling jerkoffs to show up.  But no.  Oh no.  After waiting all of about twenty-seven seconds, they decide its too cold to sit outside, they’d like to move inside, but not near the windows because it will be too sunny, and not near the door because It will be too breezy, but not around the corner away from the breeze and the door because there’s no view.  Ok.  Look around, although we make awesome use of the space by cramming as many tables as we can, its not a very large restaurant.  You tell me, given your criteria, where you think you should sit, because no matter where I put you, you’re going to point out at least four other tables that you think would be better, and then we’re just going to have to repeat the first fight all over again.  And then, for the nine millionth time, I’m going to have to explain to the intellectually incapable that they can’t give me their drink orders because I’m not their server.  I’m the hostess, I’m the chick who tries to tell you where to sit.  Your server is the one wearing all black and carrying a tray of waters towards your table.  Talk to them about getting a box o’ wine on over to your table right quick.  If you pay careful attention, you’ll notice the annoyed roll of my eyes as I walk away, and you’ll hear my apologizy to the waitstaff for giving you to them, and finished with a mutter of something about you probably being from Connecticut.