Maybe I Should Just Eat Catfood

What happens when an Old applies for a job

My car is rusty.

It’s not a metaphor. Actual rust spots are appearing. After frenetic research and discussions with 13 auto body techs, I got quotes from $2,000 to $10,000 for repairs.

Yes, that includes Maaco.

It’s time to put on my big-boy pants and get a job.

I know — I should be wearing big-girl pants but as you know, lady trousers lack roomy pockets.

The Possibilities Are Endless, like the Black Nothingness of Outer Space

I used to shy away from applying for federal jobs because the applications were ten pages long. Not anymore — the feds are starting to look reasonable and humane in comparison to the bozos on Indeed.

They don’t require half-baked IQ tests, for starters.

The feds don’t want me to agree to a drug test so I can get a gig as a paper pusher.

They know at my age, drugs are not only legal but recommended.

They don’t foist a completely transparent personality test on me.

Yes, I liked school and no, I haven’t considered axe-murdering my neighbors lately.

For F* sake, Overlords of Health Insurance, I have two master’s degrees and a BA from a highly competitive college. Stop treating me like I’ve gotten a prison-issued GED.

No offense to anyone with a GED, just sayin.’

Why the F* Did I Get All this Education?

The part that chaps my hide is my massive investment in education, specifically not one but two master's degrees.

Was it worth it, when I didn’t even reach the highest level, Doctor of Thinkology (ThD)?

I worked for a University, so the diplomas were cheap but that doesn’t mean they were easy.

Which rhymes with queasy, how I feel when I stumble upon proof of my massive effort to secure an education degree so I could be certified.

The joke’s on me — Arizona no longer requires teaching certification!

As far as I know, two graduate degrees aren’t common. Why the heck aren’t potential employers dialing me up and begging?

I guess I’m “overqualified.”

Or over-aged. Most likely, I’m over-marinated.

I have the transcripts and diplomas and gray hairs to prove all of the above.

No, I Don’t Have a Video for You

Look, I might be average on the conscientiousness scale and a tad introverted, but I can write circles around the average bear.

I can write while doing a headstand. I can produce Dr. Seuss rhymes on command.

I can belt out limericks while sober and drunk.

I can provide writing samples in cursive!

And you pole-sitting varmints still want me to take a writing test?

How ‘about I pick the test? I choose parallel parking.

It’s an audition, I guess. I need to figure out the part I want and gird up my loins, which are currently located inside my big-boy pants.

The price of admission to the audition is my diplomas and writing samples without typos.

There once was an Old seeking work Would they want her to TikTok or twerk? Wrinkly hands on her hips She came with transcripts OK Boomer, they said, you’ll be a Clerk.

Warm Bodies and Zombie Extras Apply Now

I just want a job that pays around $40K and has benefits, where I can work remotely.

I don’t care if the work requires smashing a 3-hole punch all day long while belting out Elvis tunes. If they want me to stand on my feet on concrete for ten hours and pee in a bottle, I’ll take it.

I don’t mind if the rat bastards force me to wear a brown polyester uniform. I’ve done it before.

Hell, I’ll shuffle like a zombie. It’s not a problem because I watched all eight seasons of The Walking Dead.

I’ll do algebra.

The only thing I won’t do is teach high school again. I’ve been down that dark road, seen the lifeless bodies lying in the ditches, and heard the screams of ex-teachers.

I’ll be a zombie, but not a teacher-zombie.

Complete Lack of Focus

The problem I’m having is I don’t care what the job is, which makes hunting for it challenging.

It’s like heading out into the forest for supper, brandishing a slingshot and a Swiss Army knife, looking for anything that moves. I end up returning empty-handed, then driving to the store and buying ice cream which I gobble up in the parking lot.

I feel bloated, wondering if my hunting days are behind me.

I’m no longer hungry, and that’s what the Job Overlords are looking for.

I’ve considered writing jobs, but it turns out the ones that pay more than $25 an hour are highly competitive. They want recent grads with fresh faces, newly-minted degrees, and the kind of hunger that leads to cannibalizing co-workers.

And yet I know exactly what I want, the unicorn of all forest beasts: a decent paycheck for remote work, with health insurance and no meetings.

Keep Calm and Remember to Breathe

I’d happily go back to one of my old jobs if they’d have me.

I’d work for the government again, processing disability claims.

I’d teach Special Ed, in person even. Special Ed isn’t like regular teaching — the classes are small and admin leaves you alone.

Heck, I’d love to get back to my brief stint as a technical writer on fire safety.

Who am I kidding? I can only dream of slogging through volumes of fire safety code!

I’ll be forced to take more tests just like yesterday. I was on hold with the State of Ohio — one-star, not recommended — and took the online test, thinking it would be easy.

A zombie could pass this, so I did the math problems in my head. The grating sound of the Ohio robot phone-tree voice kept repeating its message:

“Extremely, possibly biblically long wait times. Call back later, you fool.”

My thinking muscles began to flag as I struggled with word analogies.

I didn’t quite make it to the end of the test, but so what?

I don’t want a job in which they need high-level judgment skills. I should’ve hung up the phone and taken the test with a calculator or a pen and paper.

Maybe that was the test?

Good Lord, if I can’t ace a test while I’m engaged in tracking down genealogy details, then I don’t want the stupid job!

Final Iconoclasms

Publishing this piece will only further alienate me from the world of straight jobs because a future boss could read it.

So why am I writing it?

When I consider going back to work full-time, for the sake of benefits and being able to buy a new car (someday), I’m not filled with dread.

No, I’m half-filled with dread.

I like not having a boss, and I know the drill. I’d be damn lucky to get one boss. It’s more likely I’ll have a trio of those monsters.

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Jean Campbell recently started her first Substack newsletter to laser focus on getting her book, City of Lies: A Street Hustler’s Omaha Journey published.