Seriously, the above is the title of my first article. Have I told you anything about my new J.O.B.? If you belong to any of the following: country/golf/yacht/city club, chances are that it will be coming to an email/mailbox near you in December.
Yes. I write about "Lifestyle" for swanky people... and I am starting off with Snakes! On a Golf Course! Which, I have to tell you, I thought was friggin' hysterical and I was secretly pleased with myself and my ability to relate Pop Culture to a subject matter that has been done. to. death. by the all the good people at dull sporting magazines. My editor was all, "Um... don't get it." So I was put in the awkward position of trying to explain the joke and he was sort of like, "Well, we want you to write like you do in your blog, so OK."
Today we meet and discuss things like salary. I haven't had a job in over 10 years. After Hugh and I got married I worked on the production side of commercials for several months until I realized that I hated the hours and the intensity and the constant slimeballs who would say, "What are you doing on this side of the camera? You should be the talent... call me and we'll talk about it." And I would be standing their gobsmacked with some more important person's latte in my hand and realize that HOLY SHIT the casting couch still exists.
I freelanced most of my jobs, but worked rather consistently for one particular company. Well, not being sure if I wanted to stay independent I thought I would look into getting hired on somewhere and off I went to meet with this big shot producer and lalalala, I am 24, people are nice to me... lalalala...fairies and unicorns...
I walk into his office and there is shit everywhere... not a surface in sight and Mr. Big-Shot tells me to take a seat. II sort of move some piles off one chair and perch carefully lest any sudden movement cause an avalanche of books and scripts and treatments to topple off their stacks and render me senseless. We chat a little and he asks me if I can work a particular computer program. Not very well, I tell him. I have used it a little, but I would be happy to take a weekend course and learn it.
Listen girlie, I can give any monkey the keys to my car and eventually he's going to be able to turn it on. I don't need a monkey, I need someone who can work.
I stood up, thanked him for his time and walked out. I mean honestly where else was there to go?
Graduate school. I went into production a confident and excited young woman... I left feeling as though I was nothing more than a piece of ass. Someone to be flirted with, ordered around, spoken to as though I was an idiot... a stupid girl. The experience changed things for me and I was more than happy to run back to the hallowed halls of academia... because asshole professors and pervy TA's are something I can handle.
So here I am, many moons later and someone wants to pay me for what has essentially been a hobby... I feel out of my depth, scared to be found out that I am some sort of one trick pony and that within a few months the general feeling is going to be one of how the hell do we get rid of Miss Snakes?