And if you aren't working for the weekend, you are lucky. Or jobless. Or a workaholic. Or live in a society where weekends don't exsist. Or you are a member of Loverboy and you live in a world where EVERY DAY IS A WEEKEND DAY.
Just like this:
We can only dream.
(Could we also take a moment to LOVE Mike Reno and his ...ummm... outfit? And the way he claps on 1 and 3? Sigh....)
ANYWAY.
I am working for the weekend, one could say. I work for a temp agency, only to financially fuel my dreams to become a Canadian roots musician /slash/ touring SUPERSTAR. That is very attainable, right???
....RIGHT?!?!?!?
So here I am, working for the man. Or in this case, many men. (Wait, what???). What I mean to say is, each week or so, I get a new boss at a new location doing a new job. It's a dream for someone with adult-onset ADD. I love these jobs. Every time I get a phone call about a "placement" (that is what the temp agency calls it) I feel like a spy (not unlike in my favorite movie "True Lies" where Jamie Lee Curtis plays my dream role of being a mousey housewife /slash/ accidental undercover spy. AND she gets to kiss Arnold Schwarzenegger. AND she gets to fight Tia Carrere. AND she gets to put her head on Bill Paxton's lap while he drives a convertable. WHAT A DREAM.)
I am finding more and more that these temp jobs are becoming an outlet for me to realize how fascinating (and can we also point out completely bat-shit looney) people are more than simply working 8 until 4 Monday to Friday.
Here are a few examples:
-that middle-aged guy who worked with me at a drywall warehouse who kept wanting to get high with me on my lunch break (I felt it was a trap; he was most likely a narc.)
-the countless women in their 30s (but look like they are in their 50s) at various locations who ask me incredulously "Why aren't you married yet???"
-the one MILF I worked with (if you don't know what a MILF is children, it is a demon-lady who will turn you to stone if you meet her gaze. It is best to avoid contact at all costs) who was in the office next to me who yelled at her mother for about 15 minutes straight over the phone
-another coworker who incessently felt the need to show me every "sext" from her multiple lovers
-working at a post secondary institution where one of the students ate hand sanitizer RIGHT IN FRONT OF MY VERY OWN EYES
That last one was a mind-cuss. I was pretty certain that was going to die right then and there. My life flashed before my eyes, and it consisted of the following:
-me peeing my pants in a snowbank when I was in middle school (GUYS, I WAS TOLD A FUNNY JOKE. STOP JUDGING)
-me having my first lips-on-lips kiss with a boy (no tongue though, that is gross) in junior high because I forced him to kiss me (ladies if you want something done, DO IT FORCIBLY)
-me walking home from school and eating a baker's dozen of cookies from Subway and crying
AND LEST WE FORGET
-that time I ran into a glass door because some cute man was flirting with me and I didn't know what to do (stranger danger, right guys??) so I ran away.
After that flash of my past (mainly my awful life in junior high and one lame moment as an adult) I realized my life wasn't really in danger from the Purell-guzzler. (He and I actually had a neat (read: WEIRD) conversation about the Wayans brothers.)
These jobs are great. They don't pay amazingly (but money isn't everything, right friends?), but the entertainment value is something to be rivaled. When I am asked why I am not staying at a certain job, I say because I am a musician. It is at this point where I get one of two responses. Either (a) "WOW. THAT IS SO COOL. SING SOMETHING FOR ME RIGHT NOW!" or "Aww, well when you realize that you can't make a living on music, maybe we will have another job opening for you".
Shockingly, both responses make me angry.
Even more shockingly, I always have the exact same response for both of their responses.
No thanks.
Not only am I working my butt off for the weekend, I am working my butt off for the things that make me happy in my life. Shockingly, that isn't making tons of money and moving up the corporate ladder.
Until next time I get placed in some ridiculous spy -like work scenario,
That girl who is working for Loverboy- er- the weekend.
