A Personal Assistant
Hi there--so you want to do what? Personal Assistant? Hmm--never had that one before--most people don't lose all their pride and self respect until after high school. Still, I guess I could figure it out.
Don't fall for the idea that there's some sort of publicist or management course you can take that will prepare you for this line of work. You see, you'll need to become the ultimate generalist--the "jack of all trades" competent in both legal and illegal actions to aid in the comfort and safety of employer.
First of all, you should know that normal people don't have personal assistants. You will work for someone who is both wealthy and disfunctional--musicians, actors, lottery winners, children of corporate scions... Yours will be the 80+ hour week, and your personal life will be nonexistent. There is no way you can raise your own family when you have dedicated your life to parenting an incredibly selfish and needy adult.
You will start off on a professional level, at first--whatever you do, don't ask what happened to the last personal assistant--such a question shows you lack the tact for the job. There will be dozens of questions that are never asked: "Why does your passport list that as your birthday?" "Should I put your mother's call through?" "How old were those girls last night?"--and so many more. You will need to anticipate every whim before it is spoken, and should anything "kill the buzz" of the group, you will be hauled in and berated by your barely-coherent boss. You will never, of course, disrespect your employer in public, and you will sacrifice your own happiness, safety and reputation on a daily basis to keep theirs intact.
You will help them cheat on their taxes, you will calm angry hotel and restaurant managers, you will fire long time employees, you will track down and purchase all manner of illicit substances, you will pimp when your employer is horny, and you will lie to spouses and boyfriends/girlfriends so effectively that you will frighten even yourself. Don't even ask what you'll have to do for their collection of diseased, incontinent pets and relatives.
Ultimately, should you be under 280 pounds and of a gender that your employer finds at all attractive, you will be "hit on"--usually as part of a drunken, drug-addled stupor. By this time, you'll be so far removed from normal social interactions that you won't resist this final act of subservience. The next day, you'll realize that a new level of awkwardness has encroached upon your relationship with your boss, and the clock is now ticking until your replacement is found. This is when you should begin your serious embezzling of funds. Get a swiss bank account, copy and save incriminating documents, phone recordings and videotapes, and remember that everything disgusting and embarassing that's happened over your four years with this overgrown baby is now the substance of your retirement fund--you'll sell your silence to your boss, or peddle your story to the highest bidder.
Just be careful--some personal assistants find that retirement from some employers can be hazardous to one's health.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Monday, February 28, 2005
Saturday, February 26, 2005
It's kind of creepy, but...
there are probably a lot of blogs out there written by people who've died. The blogs just sit there, not updated of course, while visitors just assume after a while that the person just got bored and moved on. Over time cyberspace will be filled with these strange memorials--a graveyard full of the thoughts of the dead.
I have a friend who knows my password, I think. (the signin is jpurple) I would hope if I did die, that she'd find a way to post a little note or something. Of course, I guess it wouldn't matter much to me at that point.
I was randomly looking up ICQ i.d's a few months ago, and I found one belonging to someone I know who died about three years ago. Her parents had just left a message on it asking that only her friends use it to communicate about her. (I don't use icq so I'm not really sure how it works)
Yeah, I know, this is kind of a morbid post. I must need some sleep.
J.
I have a friend who knows my password, I think. (the signin is jpurple) I would hope if I did die, that she'd find a way to post a little note or something. Of course, I guess it wouldn't matter much to me at that point.
I was randomly looking up ICQ i.d's a few months ago, and I found one belonging to someone I know who died about three years ago. Her parents had just left a message on it asking that only her friends use it to communicate about her. (I don't use icq so I'm not really sure how it works)
Yeah, I know, this is kind of a morbid post. I must need some sleep.
J.
Friday, February 25, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A High School Teacher
What? You really want to know that one? Have you seen the people who work here? What in the hell makes you think they have a lifestyle that could in any way be appealing? Seriously, I know these people, and they're freaking misfits, every one. Summers off? Yeah, that might seem nice--but let me explain.
S0, you'll go to college, but before that, maybe you'll work in some job to raise cash for school. Remember that job--if you'd stayed there, you'd have kept on earning money--probably more as you climbed up in seniority and skill, and you wouldn't have had to pay tuition fees. Instead, you'll waste five years at college, when you could learn everything you needed to teach in two. If you ever calculate the difference between going to college and teaching, or staying in your old job, you'll realize that you'll have to work until you're 85 to be ahead on the deal.
When you graduate, you won't find the job of your dreams just waiting--you'll either travel to some godforsaken outpost where all the kids are siblings, engaged to each other, or both, or you'll rot on some substitute teaching list waiting for the phone to ring. After a year, you'll figure out that the more popular subs are those who find subtle ways to bribe the teachers who call them in to work.
Subbing will be tough--you're fresh meat for the truly sociopathic members of the school community--which is about 50% of any given school's population--and few of the regular staff ever get your name right, unless they have to seek you out to blast you for parking in their spot.
Eventually you get a job at a school--not full-time, of course, and the salary of teachers early in their careers is about half of their older, burned-out colleagues, so you won't really be pulling in much more cash than some of the kids you teach manage to earn in their after school jobs. The difference is they still live at home, so they can use their earnings to buy late model cars and clothes that fit, while you lie to yourself that no one laughs at your Pinto and that one day you won't need to pin those pants that a more svelte incarnation of you once wore with ease.
Staff meetings are hell--the pathetic divorcees who live alone with their cats have one venue each month to vent their anger at the world, and you must suffer through it--of course, maybe you'll be lucky enough to share a department with these special individuals, and that means even more quality time hearing why your gender is scum. The only thing worse will be those rare unpleasant social gatherings that include drink--these interactions will scar you for the rest of your life.
Students, of course, will be the source of all that is both good and terrible about your day. Parents won't believe their kids need the ritalin, but you'll know better, and it only takes one or two angry violent teenagers to ruin a decent class. Sadly, some of the worst will excel only in their attendance records.
Even the good ones can't be trusted. They'll mock your wardrobe, particularly if you ever wear the same article of clothing in any 10 day period, and you'll eventually realize that you are lied to about 40 times a day. Your favorites will eventually disappoint you when you find mocking charicatures of you scribbled on the backs of the binders they forget in your classroom. Your feeble attempts to be "relevant"--which means painfully embarassing misuse of 10 year old ghetto slang--will be particular fodder for their parodies that stop when you walk too close...
Eventually, you'll be too old to try to connect any more, and it becomes a sad parade of years wishing 10 months gone to enjoy the all too brief moments of July and August. You become the old fart that everyone wishes would retire, but you can't really afford to. You and your students are united only in your mutual loathing of each other. After the first 10 years, you give up even trying to make the occasional class interesting--too many swine have brutishly trampled the pearls of your creativity.
Parents treat you no better--sure there are the occasional ones who find something positive in what you do, but every parent night has at least a couple who've shown up to work out their anger from their own tragic high school experience on you. Even the good ones are convinced that you are a scam artist stealing a full-time paycheck for working four or five hours a day.
Your family, if you have one, will be under constant financial pressure, and your pile of marking and preparation work is a burden that you carry like Atlas shouldered the globe. You are the only one who ages in a room full of the perpetually young, making you constantly conscious of your own mortality and physical deterioration.
Of course, if it gets too bad, you could always switch to counselling...
What? You really want to know that one? Have you seen the people who work here? What in the hell makes you think they have a lifestyle that could in any way be appealing? Seriously, I know these people, and they're freaking misfits, every one. Summers off? Yeah, that might seem nice--but let me explain.
S0, you'll go to college, but before that, maybe you'll work in some job to raise cash for school. Remember that job--if you'd stayed there, you'd have kept on earning money--probably more as you climbed up in seniority and skill, and you wouldn't have had to pay tuition fees. Instead, you'll waste five years at college, when you could learn everything you needed to teach in two. If you ever calculate the difference between going to college and teaching, or staying in your old job, you'll realize that you'll have to work until you're 85 to be ahead on the deal.
When you graduate, you won't find the job of your dreams just waiting--you'll either travel to some godforsaken outpost where all the kids are siblings, engaged to each other, or both, or you'll rot on some substitute teaching list waiting for the phone to ring. After a year, you'll figure out that the more popular subs are those who find subtle ways to bribe the teachers who call them in to work.
Subbing will be tough--you're fresh meat for the truly sociopathic members of the school community--which is about 50% of any given school's population--and few of the regular staff ever get your name right, unless they have to seek you out to blast you for parking in their spot.
Eventually you get a job at a school--not full-time, of course, and the salary of teachers early in their careers is about half of their older, burned-out colleagues, so you won't really be pulling in much more cash than some of the kids you teach manage to earn in their after school jobs. The difference is they still live at home, so they can use their earnings to buy late model cars and clothes that fit, while you lie to yourself that no one laughs at your Pinto and that one day you won't need to pin those pants that a more svelte incarnation of you once wore with ease.
Staff meetings are hell--the pathetic divorcees who live alone with their cats have one venue each month to vent their anger at the world, and you must suffer through it--of course, maybe you'll be lucky enough to share a department with these special individuals, and that means even more quality time hearing why your gender is scum. The only thing worse will be those rare unpleasant social gatherings that include drink--these interactions will scar you for the rest of your life.
Students, of course, will be the source of all that is both good and terrible about your day. Parents won't believe their kids need the ritalin, but you'll know better, and it only takes one or two angry violent teenagers to ruin a decent class. Sadly, some of the worst will excel only in their attendance records.
Even the good ones can't be trusted. They'll mock your wardrobe, particularly if you ever wear the same article of clothing in any 10 day period, and you'll eventually realize that you are lied to about 40 times a day. Your favorites will eventually disappoint you when you find mocking charicatures of you scribbled on the backs of the binders they forget in your classroom. Your feeble attempts to be "relevant"--which means painfully embarassing misuse of 10 year old ghetto slang--will be particular fodder for their parodies that stop when you walk too close...
Eventually, you'll be too old to try to connect any more, and it becomes a sad parade of years wishing 10 months gone to enjoy the all too brief moments of July and August. You become the old fart that everyone wishes would retire, but you can't really afford to. You and your students are united only in your mutual loathing of each other. After the first 10 years, you give up even trying to make the occasional class interesting--too many swine have brutishly trampled the pearls of your creativity.
Parents treat you no better--sure there are the occasional ones who find something positive in what you do, but every parent night has at least a couple who've shown up to work out their anger from their own tragic high school experience on you. Even the good ones are convinced that you are a scam artist stealing a full-time paycheck for working four or five hours a day.
Your family, if you have one, will be under constant financial pressure, and your pile of marking and preparation work is a burden that you carry like Atlas shouldered the globe. You are the only one who ages in a room full of the perpetually young, making you constantly conscious of your own mortality and physical deterioration.
Of course, if it gets too bad, you could always switch to counselling...
Saturday, February 19, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as
A Used Car Salesperson
Hey there--oh, a car salesman? Yeah, I guess that might work out--how do you feel about plaid suits? Just kidding...
So, the path you'll probably take is to first work on your charm--I don't mean the stuff you use to try to get with that girl I saw you following around at the dance last week, but the truly insincere patter that you can only develop by going for unexpected visits to your elderly relatives or volunteering at the seniors' center. Eventually that cheesy smile and quick handshake will become second nature.
You won't go right into car sales--no one wants to buy a car from an 18 year old--so you'll have to follow the tried and true food chain to success: Stereo store, matress/furniture outlet, used cars, new cars, life insurance.
You'll do well at the stereo store. Your patter will become smoother, and you'll throw around terms you memorize from the audiophile magazines left in the washroom. You learn the fine art of never recognizing the customers who come back to return items, and you have the advantage of being one of the few employees who speaks fluent English and doesn't have to run out the back way when the immigration authorities pay a visit. Your commissions rise steadily, and soon you move on to the matress outlet.
There you continue your success, and soon you're one of the five assistant managers--all that really means though is that they can phone you when the alarm goes off on a Saturday night, and you get to fire people who really piss you off.
Finally, you're ready. You've created an impressive sales resume, and you skip the sketchy dealers on "the strip" and go work in the used lot at a dealership. They've got a simple policy--if you're the bottom in sales for two months out of four, you're fired. With four or five of you always working the lot, it's tricky to stay off that list, but you manage.
You're third in the pecking order on that lot. The top is Bob "The Closer" Wellburn--a veteran who could have moved to the front and sold new cars, but has a schtick that works best with the "get this unique car before it goes" routine that involves his signalling a nearby real estate office where one of three cohorts dashes over to pretend to feel they'd already bought the car in question--Bob, of course, sends them away and usually makes the sale.
Second is Jenny "why yes, I was a Budweiser girl" Baxter; her business attire always includes blouses with snaps rather than buttons that have an amazing knack of popping open at the most opportune times. The mechanics joke that "test drives" are a euphemism with her customers, but you know she has simply perfected the flirt sale.
You become the "honest" one--you will already have learned to fake sincerity better than anybody--and this usually keeps you off the firing list, at least until you drop your guard--your lot is down to four sales people, and you feel unthreatened even after a bad month previous--the new guy, with some unpronounceable name and broken English hasn't made a single sale since they hired him. What you don't anticipate is his wealthy relatives coming in and buying five high-end cars from him on the last two days of the month.
It boils down to you and Jenny for two days--she isn't in danger of being fired, but she's never finished last, either. Bob steps aside to run an office pool on the two of you, and you work without rest--pulling out all the stops and cutting your commissions to nothing, and you are about to close the month safely when Jenny comes in to congratulate you. You chat in the break room, then she leaves--where you see her outside the window crying on the shoulder of your boss. He storms in and fires you for sexual harassment--she pleads for leniency between the tears, and your protests are dashed when she shows him emails she sent herself from your email address when you left your mailbox open on the breakroom computer.
You're furious, but there's nothing you can do. Reputable dealerships aren't hiring, and your ex-boss has blacklisted you with them anyway. You suck it up and head to the strip, where soon you're lying about crash histories and coming in at night to set back odometers. When you can't fake the VIN numbers of cars with dubious ownership histories, you sell them to your new connections in area "chop shops", and overall, you're soon pulling in more money than at your former job.
You're taken down in a sting operation and sentenced to 18 months--you get off in 6 with good behaviour, and move to somewhere like Red Deer or Oklahoma where you spend the rest of your life selling RVs...
More Cynical Career advice here
Hey there--oh, a car salesman? Yeah, I guess that might work out--how do you feel about plaid suits? Just kidding...
So, the path you'll probably take is to first work on your charm--I don't mean the stuff you use to try to get with that girl I saw you following around at the dance last week, but the truly insincere patter that you can only develop by going for unexpected visits to your elderly relatives or volunteering at the seniors' center. Eventually that cheesy smile and quick handshake will become second nature.
You won't go right into car sales--no one wants to buy a car from an 18 year old--so you'll have to follow the tried and true food chain to success: Stereo store, matress/furniture outlet, used cars, new cars, life insurance.
You'll do well at the stereo store. Your patter will become smoother, and you'll throw around terms you memorize from the audiophile magazines left in the washroom. You learn the fine art of never recognizing the customers who come back to return items, and you have the advantage of being one of the few employees who speaks fluent English and doesn't have to run out the back way when the immigration authorities pay a visit. Your commissions rise steadily, and soon you move on to the matress outlet.
There you continue your success, and soon you're one of the five assistant managers--all that really means though is that they can phone you when the alarm goes off on a Saturday night, and you get to fire people who really piss you off.
Finally, you're ready. You've created an impressive sales resume, and you skip the sketchy dealers on "the strip" and go work in the used lot at a dealership. They've got a simple policy--if you're the bottom in sales for two months out of four, you're fired. With four or five of you always working the lot, it's tricky to stay off that list, but you manage.
You're third in the pecking order on that lot. The top is Bob "The Closer" Wellburn--a veteran who could have moved to the front and sold new cars, but has a schtick that works best with the "get this unique car before it goes" routine that involves his signalling a nearby real estate office where one of three cohorts dashes over to pretend to feel they'd already bought the car in question--Bob, of course, sends them away and usually makes the sale.
Second is Jenny "why yes, I was a Budweiser girl" Baxter; her business attire always includes blouses with snaps rather than buttons that have an amazing knack of popping open at the most opportune times. The mechanics joke that "test drives" are a euphemism with her customers, but you know she has simply perfected the flirt sale.
You become the "honest" one--you will already have learned to fake sincerity better than anybody--and this usually keeps you off the firing list, at least until you drop your guard--your lot is down to four sales people, and you feel unthreatened even after a bad month previous--the new guy, with some unpronounceable name and broken English hasn't made a single sale since they hired him. What you don't anticipate is his wealthy relatives coming in and buying five high-end cars from him on the last two days of the month.
It boils down to you and Jenny for two days--she isn't in danger of being fired, but she's never finished last, either. Bob steps aside to run an office pool on the two of you, and you work without rest--pulling out all the stops and cutting your commissions to nothing, and you are about to close the month safely when Jenny comes in to congratulate you. You chat in the break room, then she leaves--where you see her outside the window crying on the shoulder of your boss. He storms in and fires you for sexual harassment--she pleads for leniency between the tears, and your protests are dashed when she shows him emails she sent herself from your email address when you left your mailbox open on the breakroom computer.
You're furious, but there's nothing you can do. Reputable dealerships aren't hiring, and your ex-boss has blacklisted you with them anyway. You suck it up and head to the strip, where soon you're lying about crash histories and coming in at night to set back odometers. When you can't fake the VIN numbers of cars with dubious ownership histories, you sell them to your new connections in area "chop shops", and overall, you're soon pulling in more money than at your former job.
You're taken down in a sting operation and sentenced to 18 months--you get off in 6 with good behaviour, and move to somewhere like Red Deer or Oklahoma where you spend the rest of your life selling RVs...
More Cynical Career advice here
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
And it's on TWICE a week
American Idol. My family watches it. Not me. You see, I direct musicals, so each year, I get to sit through four or five days of that.
So the thrill of sitting in front of the t.v. for the first several weeks while they show over and over the very worst possible performances that they reject--it ain't so much like entertainment as it is reliving what I have come to dread a bit. Thankfully, most of what I see is pretty good.
Then of course, there's all the obligatory trash talk about why it's a travesty (usually mispronounced, of course) that such amazing talent was rejected. Thing is, the whole thing smacks of phoniness now anyways. Most of the really awful people know that decently talented never gets on t.v., but William Hung wannabes will stand a better chance at a few seconds of fame.
Then there's Canadian Idol. More of the same, but with cheesier production values. I think the trick to success is to find a small enough country and take up citizenship there and win their "Idol" show. I believe, were I younger, I could make a good "Icelandic Idol".
I think this was a British show first, wasn't it--like Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Weakest Link.
The Brits have a lot to answer for, methinks.
So the thrill of sitting in front of the t.v. for the first several weeks while they show over and over the very worst possible performances that they reject--it ain't so much like entertainment as it is reliving what I have come to dread a bit. Thankfully, most of what I see is pretty good.
Then of course, there's all the obligatory trash talk about why it's a travesty (usually mispronounced, of course) that such amazing talent was rejected. Thing is, the whole thing smacks of phoniness now anyways. Most of the really awful people know that decently talented never gets on t.v., but William Hung wannabes will stand a better chance at a few seconds of fame.
Then there's Canadian Idol. More of the same, but with cheesier production values. I think the trick to success is to find a small enough country and take up citizenship there and win their "Idol" show. I believe, were I younger, I could make a good "Icelandic Idol".
I think this was a British show first, wasn't it--like Who Wants to be a Millionaire and Weakest Link.
The Brits have a lot to answer for, methinks.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
A Cabdriver
Oh hello. No, he's not here right now, but I'm substituting for him. I'm Ms. Pauly, but you can call me by my first name, Anna. So, I understand that normally this is the office where people come to get advice on what to do for a living. What would you... Oh, a taxi driver? How wonderful! Let me see, I think I can come up with something for you.
You look like the type of person who's a really careful driver--am I right? Oh, really? Well, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding and you'll get your license back very soon. So, once you do, and you walk out of here with your diploma, you will have to take some imporant defensive driving courses, so you know the best way to handle the roads, to protect the precious lives entrusted to you each day.
Taxi driving will be an exciting life, so you should go downtown now, while you're still in high school, and make friends with the drivers who are waiting for fares down there. Tell them your dreams; I'm sure they'll be just as excited as you are. You'll see the romantic side of life when you're cabdriving--important politicians, successful business people, and young newlyweds all will grace your clean, shiny taxicab, made all that sweeter by the fresh cut flowers you place each day in the little holder on the dashboard. People will share...
Wait, who's that at the.... er, Mr. Jamison, you don't look, er well, should you be... what? You've been listening in? I'm going to have to go talk to the principal about... excuse me.
Whatever--don't roll your eyes at me, you psychotic Mary Kay reject. Ugh---look kid, I'm sick as a dog and I've been drinking since noon, but I came here to pick up the bottle I left... er, some important papers, and I heard that load of crap. I don't have much time... I'll give it to you simple:
You'll hate driving cab, you'll hate the people who ride it--they'll either look down on you or they'll puke in your car. Nobody will tip you enough, and everybody will think you're trying to rip them off. You'll be robbed an average of once every 10 weeks. People will run off without paying about four times a week. You'll get fat, and you won't get dates. You won't be able to afford a nice place, so you'll live over the taxistand. On your days off you'll eventually start working the dispatch, since that's where they deal the drugs from, so at least you can finally make a little bit of money.
Look--I gotta hit the can. Lock up, wouldya? Drop in next week and I'll try to find you some brochures or somethin'.
Oh hello. No, he's not here right now, but I'm substituting for him. I'm Ms. Pauly, but you can call me by my first name, Anna. So, I understand that normally this is the office where people come to get advice on what to do for a living. What would you... Oh, a taxi driver? How wonderful! Let me see, I think I can come up with something for you.
You look like the type of person who's a really careful driver--am I right? Oh, really? Well, I'm sure it was a misunderstanding and you'll get your license back very soon. So, once you do, and you walk out of here with your diploma, you will have to take some imporant defensive driving courses, so you know the best way to handle the roads, to protect the precious lives entrusted to you each day.
Taxi driving will be an exciting life, so you should go downtown now, while you're still in high school, and make friends with the drivers who are waiting for fares down there. Tell them your dreams; I'm sure they'll be just as excited as you are. You'll see the romantic side of life when you're cabdriving--important politicians, successful business people, and young newlyweds all will grace your clean, shiny taxicab, made all that sweeter by the fresh cut flowers you place each day in the little holder on the dashboard. People will share...
Wait, who's that at the.... er, Mr. Jamison, you don't look, er well, should you be... what? You've been listening in? I'm going to have to go talk to the principal about... excuse me.
Whatever--don't roll your eyes at me, you psychotic Mary Kay reject. Ugh---look kid, I'm sick as a dog and I've been drinking since noon, but I came here to pick up the bottle I left... er, some important papers, and I heard that load of crap. I don't have much time... I'll give it to you simple:
You'll hate driving cab, you'll hate the people who ride it--they'll either look down on you or they'll puke in your car. Nobody will tip you enough, and everybody will think you're trying to rip them off. You'll be robbed an average of once every 10 weeks. People will run off without paying about four times a week. You'll get fat, and you won't get dates. You won't be able to afford a nice place, so you'll live over the taxistand. On your days off you'll eventually start working the dispatch, since that's where they deal the drugs from, so at least you can finally make a little bit of money.
Look--I gotta hit the can. Lock up, wouldya? Drop in next week and I'll try to find you some brochures or somethin'.
Friday, February 04, 2005
The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future As
An Elementary School Playground Supervisor
Hi--are you sure you're in the right place? Oh, you do? Then come in. No, don't touch that. Just sit down, okay? All right--what is it you want to talk about? What's a "duty"? Uh-huh... Oh, you mean one of those playground monitors. As a career? You realize that you'd need some sort of real job; that doesn't pay... Now wait a minute, don't get upset. You already get money? Plate in your head? okay then... It would probably go something like this:
You will finish high school, I guess, and then you'll get some sort of job training, and eventually you'll indicate that... huh? Oh, indicate means you tell somebody. Look, I'm just going to smoke while we do this, okay--don't tell anybody though. Right--don't "indicate" about it.
So, you'll say "I wanna be a duty", and some nice person will teach you about being one. And then you will. Great, see you later. What? Whattya mean, there should be more? Well that's because those kids are talking about real... all right, but not too long.
You'll get a nice orange vest, and a shiny whistle, and you get to yell at the bad kids. Some of the bad kids might make fun of how you talk, but you don't worry about that. When they go back inside, you just let the air out of their bike tires, or smear the dog poop from the sandbox on their seats. Whenever the principal comes to talk to you, listen real carefully and then ask him why you don't have a pension plan or dental benefits. Here, I'll write it down for you.
Make sure when November rolls around you ask all the teachers when the Christmas party is and tell them you want to have it at your place. If the principal or one of the other staff asks you to do something you don't want to, like sweep up the glass on the playground, say "my head hurts" and go lie down in the nurse's room for a while. Make sure you blow the whistle at least once every lunchtime or they'll take it away from you.
There, is that enough? Good. Yes, I like you too. No, you can't have a cigarette--you can smoke lots when you're a duty, though.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Hi--are you sure you're in the right place? Oh, you do? Then come in. No, don't touch that. Just sit down, okay? All right--what is it you want to talk about? What's a "duty"? Uh-huh... Oh, you mean one of those playground monitors. As a career? You realize that you'd need some sort of real job; that doesn't pay... Now wait a minute, don't get upset. You already get money? Plate in your head? okay then... It would probably go something like this:
You will finish high school, I guess, and then you'll get some sort of job training, and eventually you'll indicate that... huh? Oh, indicate means you tell somebody. Look, I'm just going to smoke while we do this, okay--don't tell anybody though. Right--don't "indicate" about it.
So, you'll say "I wanna be a duty", and some nice person will teach you about being one. And then you will. Great, see you later. What? Whattya mean, there should be more? Well that's because those kids are talking about real... all right, but not too long.
You'll get a nice orange vest, and a shiny whistle, and you get to yell at the bad kids. Some of the bad kids might make fun of how you talk, but you don't worry about that. When they go back inside, you just let the air out of their bike tires, or smear the dog poop from the sandbox on their seats. Whenever the principal comes to talk to you, listen real carefully and then ask him why you don't have a pension plan or dental benefits. Here, I'll write it down for you.
Make sure when November rolls around you ask all the teachers when the Christmas party is and tell them you want to have it at your place. If the principal or one of the other staff asks you to do something you don't want to, like sweep up the glass on the playground, say "my head hurts" and go lie down in the nurse's room for a while. Make sure you blow the whistle at least once every lunchtime or they'll take it away from you.
There, is that enough? Good. Yes, I like you too. No, you can't have a cigarette--you can smoke lots when you're a duty, though.
Previous Cynical Career Counsellor Advice Here
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
don't look in the china cabinet
Transcript of conversation mentioned yesterday (more or less)
Judy: So if we buy this warranty it covers all the things on this list? (looks at list)
Furniture Girl: Yes--and if you buy it we don't charge you GST on your purchase.
Moi: Stains from bodily fluids? Ewwwww....
Furniture Girl: Well that's more for fabric of course...
Moi: (pointing) See--it's listed for the wood furniture too.
Judy: Couldn't you just clean it?
Furniture Girl: It would be like if a kid maybe threw up on it
Moi: You could clean that--I think they mean bloodstains
Furniture Girl: Yeah--of course, if you were going to murder someone in your home, you wouldn't want people to find the bloodstains
Moi: But wouldn't the people who who replaced the furniture know?
Furniture Girl: (looks around surreptitiously) They might not tell...
Moi: But with all the CSI stuff now, I bet they could still tell
Judy: So this lasts for seven years?
Furniture Girl: Yeah--so if after five years you want new furniture, you just "arrange" to have a child drop something heavy on it. Of course, it would have to be (looks around again) "an accident".
She didn't make air quotes with her fingers, but they were clearly implied. I think I would shop there again, even if the furniture is kind of crappy.
J.
Judy: So if we buy this warranty it covers all the things on this list? (looks at list)
Furniture Girl: Yes--and if you buy it we don't charge you GST on your purchase.
Moi: Stains from bodily fluids? Ewwwww....
Furniture Girl: Well that's more for fabric of course...
Moi: (pointing) See--it's listed for the wood furniture too.
Judy: Couldn't you just clean it?
Furniture Girl: It would be like if a kid maybe threw up on it
Moi: You could clean that--I think they mean bloodstains
Furniture Girl: Yeah--of course, if you were going to murder someone in your home, you wouldn't want people to find the bloodstains
Moi: But wouldn't the people who who replaced the furniture know?
Furniture Girl: (looks around surreptitiously) They might not tell...
Moi: But with all the CSI stuff now, I bet they could still tell
Judy: So this lasts for seven years?
Furniture Girl: Yeah--so if after five years you want new furniture, you just "arrange" to have a child drop something heavy on it. Of course, it would have to be (looks around again) "an accident".
She didn't make air quotes with her fingers, but they were clearly implied. I think I would shop there again, even if the furniture is kind of crappy.
J.
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