Feb 11, 2000
I'm in need of a job having just quit mine. Here's my resume. It's the resume of the unemployable.
The summer of high school graduation: a summer job in Rathmullen House Hotel. The job was procured for me and my best friend Helen by our classmate Juliet, Juliet's parents Bob and Jummy (yes, Jummy) owned the hotel. We never bothered to ascertain exactly what we would be doing during our summer of employment there. I was the dishwasher. Helen got to cook eggs and other things as well as wait on tables for dinner service. Helen was, and in fact still is, very beautiful; I think this may have been why she also got the relatively glamorous dining room stint. She also got to know some of the more handsome local boys; this gave me the opportunity to get to know her handsome Dutch boyfriend when he came to visit. I've always liked the fact that she didn't mind sharing him. She was miserable cooking eggs, I was miserable washing dishes: we ate huge amounts of food and left with our girlish figures and our ambitions somewhat revised. I still wonder what Juliet was doing that summer. At the end of our toil our "Leaving Certificate" results arrived; I thought I'd been saved as I had been offered a place doing what I wanted to do at University.
First summer of college: Again my employment is wrapped up with Helen. Gary had fallen for Helen. He had found himself a very lucrative job in a car factory in Germany and wrote to us telling of jobs nearby in a plum factory. We sent a telegram to Gary: "Two plum jobs for girls" and booked our train and ferry tickets. The plum jobs never materialized and Gary's job came to an end. We found ourselves shop lifting peanut butter in Amsterdam and living in the house of a strange Dutch woman. Eventually we secured jobs peeling bulbs in a suburb of Amsterdam. Unfortunately our rate of bulb peeling (slower than our eleven year old co-workers) prevented our experience from being profitable, after we had paid our rent to Frau Verbeek and paid for the bus to the bulb plant we were losing money. Helen and Gary decided to go on vacation on Gary's factory proceeds, I went home and got a waitressing job. It strikes me that the contours of these first two jobs contain all of the characteristics of all the rest of my jobs.
After college I got a job with a friend of my mother's. She ran an educational Institute in a damp and cold Georgian building in Dublin. I was hired to do administrative things. She lured American college students to Dublin where they were lectured in literature, history and archeology. The American students were always bitterly diappointed when they arrived and saw the crumbling building and the alcoholic teachers. This brings me to another recurring theme in my employment history: the suspicion that all of the businesses I have worked for are complete shams. This may be related to the fact that they are the only businesses that would hire me.
Every Tuesday I would visit the Careers and Appointments (or Disappointments as it was referred to) Office of Trinity College in an attempt to get another job. It was the year with the highest statistic for graduate emmigration in Ireland; the Celtic Tiger's parents hadn't even met at this point. The only job offer was teaching English in Beirut.
I emmigrated to New York with two friends. I got a job in an Italian cafe run by a Pakistani on Jones Street. During the day I worked as a proofreader for cable television schedules. Other jobs followed: painting costume jewelry, legal proofreader, house painting, caretaking the homeless mentally ill, decorative/so-faux-you wouldn't-know painting, teaching essay skills to junkies, magazine copy editing, ghost writer for a psychic, assistant to a mean fundraiser, PR account executive, personal assistant/nanny to an oversexed, chocolate devouring, hash smoking 19 year old movie star, copy editor/writer for a non-profit agency's publications, assistant to a pastry chef, and now hostess at a restaurant in which I have an interest. I have also supplemented my income in the past with welfare fraud and credit card abuse. I have a deep distrust of psychiatry but have actually wondered if one of the profession could help me with my atrocious attitude to work and my, what I think they refer to as, entitlement issues. My motto seems to be: bite the hand that feeds you; it's the closest. I think the only job I could perform without becoming increasingly bitter and twisted will involve working alone and for myself. References available upon request.
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I'm in need of a job having just quit mine. Here's my resume. It's the resume of the unemployable. The summer of high school graduation: a summer job in Rathmullen House Hotel. The job was procured for me and my best friend Helen by our classmate Juliet, Juliet's parents Bob and Jummy (yes, Jummy) owned the hotel. We never bothered to ascertain exactly what we would be doing during our summer of employment there. I was the dishwasher. Helen got to cook eggs and other things as well as wait on tables for dinner service. Helen was, and in fact still is, very beautiful; I think this may have been why she also got the relatively glamorous dining room stint. She also got to know some of the more handsome local boys; this gave me the opportunity to get to know her handsome Dutch boyfriend when he came to visit. I've always liked the fact that she didn't mind sharing him. She was miserable cooking eggs, I was miserable washing dishes: we ate huge amounts of food and left with our girlish figures and our ambitions somewhat revised. I still wonder what Juliet was doing that summer. At the end of our toil our "Leaving Certificate" results arrived; I thought I'd been saved as I had been offered a place doing what I wanted to do at University. First summer of college: Again my employment is wrapped up with Helen. Gary had fallen for Helen. He had found himself a very lucrative job in a car factory in Germany and wrote to us telling of jobs nearby in a plum factory. We sent a telegram to Gary: "Two plum jobs for girls" and booked our train and ferry tickets. The plum jobs never materialized and Gary's job came to an end. We found ourselves shop lifting peanut butter in Amsterdam and living in the house of a strange Dutch woman. Eventually we secured jobs peeling bulbs in a suburb of Amsterdam. Unfortunately our rate of bulb peeling (slower than our eleven year old co-workers) prevented our experience from being profitable, after we had paid our rent to Frau Verbeek and paid for the bus to the bulb plant we were losing money. Helen and Gary decided to go on vacation on Gary's factory proceeds, I went home and got a waitressing job. It strikes me that the contours of these first two jobs contain all of the characteristics of all the rest of my jobs. After college I got a job with a friend of my mother's. She ran an educational Institute in a damp and cold Georgian building in Dublin. I was hired to do administrative things. She lured American college students to Dublin where they were lectured in literature, history and archeology. The American students were always bitterly diappointed when they arrived and saw the crumbling building and the alcoholic teachers. This brings me to another recurring theme in my employment history: the suspicion that all of the businesses I have worked for are complete shams. This may be related to the fact that they are the only businesses that would hire me. Every Tuesday I would visit the Careers and Appointments (or Disappointments as it was referred to) Office of Trinity College in an attempt to get another job. It was the year with the highest statistic for graduate emmigration in Ireland; the Celtic Tiger's parents hadn't even met at this point. The only job offer was teaching English in Beirut. I emmigrated to New York with two friends. I got a job in an Italian cafe run by a Pakistani on Jones Street. During the day I worked as a proofreader for cable television schedules. Other jobs followed: painting costume jewelry, legal proofreader, house painting, caretaking the homeless mentally ill, decorative/so-faux-you wouldn't-know painting, teaching essay skills to junkies, magazine copy editing, ghost writer for a psychic, assistant to a mean fundraiser, PR account executive, personal assistant/nanny to an oversexed, chocolate devouring, hash smoking 19 year old movie star, copy editor/writer for a non-profit agency's publications, assistant to a pastry chef, and now hostess at a restaurant in which I have an interest. I have also supplemented my income in the past with welfare fraud and credit card abuse. I have a deep distrust of psychiatry but have actually wondered if one of the profession could help me with my atrocious attitude to work and my, what I think they refer to as, entitlement issues. My motto seems to be: bite the hand that feeds you; it's the closest. I think the only job I could perform without becoming increasingly bitter and twisted will involve working alone and for myself. References available upon request.
- rachael 11-28-2000 8:11 pm