Ya Get What Ya Pay For, Part the First

Right. So, I know it’s totally gauche to talk about money, but you know I’m going to do it anyway.

When I was applying for the tide-me-over-until-later job, also known as the oh-crap-I-have-exactly-zero-dollars job, I was looking to make somewhere between $12 and $20 per hour. Depending on where you’re reading this blog, that may seem like wishful thinking, but in the Greater Chicagoland Area, that’s an entirely realistic range for your receptionists and general office support staff with a few years of experience (which I have). Receptionist-only gigs run near the bottom of the scale, while office support and “administrative assistant” gigs run closer to the top. Even the temporary office positions pay about $14-$20—no college degree needed, just a couple of years of office experience and the most basic of computer skills. Were talking “Experience with Microsoft Windows and Microsoft Office Suite a plus”. Now, this is not because Chicagoans have a greater appreciation for the contributions of office workers, but rather because it’s just so damn expensive to live here. Rent in my county is insane. Not San Francisco insane, but still.

So when I went a little wild flinging my resume around on the monster.com, I kind of lost track of the places I sent them to. That, plus the fact that lots of companies go through third-party recruiters, and others sign up as “confidential companies,” although I can’t understand why, unless they have something to hide. So, companies would call me, and I’d have to pretend that I remembered sending my resume specifically to them, which was fine, but made me a little dizzy. When I did apply to an MRI clinic? Did I really apply to be a bookkeeper at Peterbilt? So when I was contacted by the human resources department at the Funny Factory, I was kind of confused, but it was for a straight-up receptionist gig, which I could do in my sleep, so I was excited for the interview. Plus, debtors’ prison was looking more and more like a reality, so I was pretty much ready to accept the first offer I got, provided it was above my absolute bottom-line, which was $10 an hour—although I couldn’t remember even applying for a job that paid $10 an hour.

The next day I went to the Funny Factory which, appropriately enough, was a Factory that made Funnies. Well, more like it personalized funnies. You know, you could get 10,000 glow bracelets with “Jackoff’s Family Reunion” printed on them, if you were so inclined. I aced the interview, and at the end of it, the human resources lady said, “Just so you know, the position starts at $11.50 per hour.” And I have to admit I was disappointed—it was the lowest-paying position I interviewed for—but I was also desperate, in the wallet area, anyways, so when I was offered the job the next day with a start date of the following Monday, I took it without hesitation. This girl needed a paycheck. Plus, I was only hired as reception—answering phones, transferring calls, greeting visitors. That’s it. So I figured it was okay money for the job.

When I showed up for work the following Monday, however, the story had changed. Recognizing my potential to do more than “just answer phones” or some such hooey, the Funny Factory had filled the receptionist internally, and my job? “Well, let’s not give you an official job title yet,” Human Resources told me. (I still don’t have one.)

The first couple of days I spent exclusively “doing paperwork,” as they called it, which sounds kind of advanced, but actually could have been done by a trained chimpanzee, or any vaguely simian animal, as opposable thumbs were the only real requirement for the task. Each day, I was given a knee-high stack of packets of paper stapled together. My job was to remove all the staples (usually three or four), separate the individual papers into piles (usually three or four), and then re-staple papers (in a new configuration). Remove staples. Separate. Re-staple. Lather. Rinse. Repeat. All day long, minus one half-hour (unpaid) lunch, and two (paid) 15-minute breaks.

I tried to make my task mythic by pretending I was Sisyphus, doomed by the gods to push the boulder up the hill only to have it roll right back down the other side. Remove staple. Remove staple. Remove staple. Insert staple. Insert staple. Insert staple. It didn’t really work, though. As much as I’d like it, nothing I do is ever really mythic. I once did a lingerie fashion show in the auditorium of a middle school (yes and yes, and yes I did) on the day that the US officially declared war on Osama Bin Laden—that got a little close to epic, but never anything near mythic.

After a couple of days of that, though, I guess my mad stapla skillz proved something or other, and the next thing I know, my days are split between a couple of The Owner’s businesses—half days at the Funny Factory, half days at The Company. At the Company, I became the Office Manager (but without the official title)—phones and greeting, yes, but also invoicing, shipping, order follow-up, ordering supplies. And back at the Funny factory, I was tracking down discrepancies on the monthly charge card reports, creating and sending proofs that “have to get to the client right now!!!!!”, and I was supposed to “hassle the salesmen” about getting their proofs to me on time. Totally manageable but, coming back to my original gauche point, far from the job I interviewed for and accepted, and far, far, far too much responsibility for $11.50 per hour. But by then I was kind of stuck—I needed the paycheck, but I knew I was totally getting taken for a ride. What's a girl to do?

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