I’m going to be famous.  I’m quite certain of it now.  No, I haven’t quite mastered acting, my singing voice leaves much to be desired (though my rendition of Tupac’s “Changes” has recently created a minor stir), and while I’ve never actually witnessed it myself, I hear that I’m somewhat of an awkward dancer (so Making the Band IV is definitely out of the question).  I’m not even a useless partying slut with a rich dad like Paris Hilton.  As a matter of fact, I’m not exactly sure what skill, invention or pornographic video I’m going to unleash upon society to make me famous, but I do know that it’s going to happen and here’s why…I have an atrocious job history.  Brace yourself for my success theory kids…(drum roll)…The worse the job before stardom, the larger the star.  Hear me out.  Brad Pitt worked at El Pollo Loco dressed in a chicken suit before he made Fight Club and got to do Gwyneth, Rachel from Friends and now (drum roll and trumpets please), Angelina Jolie.  And those are just a few of my favorite highlights from his impressive career. 

Now let’s take a look at my resume.  Nothing as money as wearing a chicken suit, but snack shack burger flipper, Pinecrest theater usher, medical study subject, bus driver – this is the stuff of legends!  I once had a job that was listed in the want ads as “photocopier/courier”.  Yes that’s right, photocopier slash courier, because the photocopier bit was clearly a better descriptor of what the job entailed.  Courier/photocopier would have made it sound too glamorous.  If that doesn’t get me a feature in US Weekly, I don’t know what will. 

So really all that was just a segue to the real purpose of this blog: to complain about my bad life choices as if they were imposed upon me.  No less than three people this week have begged me to stop bitching about having to drive shuttles again.  Jenny, in her infinite wisdom, or more accurately, a moment of utter frustration (I might have been complaining about having to work at 6:30 one morning of the week when she actually leaves by that time everyday), even cried out, “why don’t you just blog about it?!”  So I am.  And if you’ve become savvy by now to the fact that this is just a lengthy pity party I’m throwing for myself, you can just stop reading rather than having to interpret in person my ramblings about coworkers who know each bus by its unique engine problem and talk about it in casual conversation like it’s cool (no offense Jill), or who would report a suspicious looking rock if it gave them an opportunity to hear their voice on the radio. 

Since I’ve sort of exhausted the shuttle subject as of late, and I really don’t think I have time to go over the details of every bad job I’ve ever had, I’d like to take this opportunity to touch on one of my favorites for all of you who are still reading.  This job was my first indication of my gift for underachieving and finding totally unrewarding means of employment…

My very first job was as an usher at an outdoor movie theater in Pinecrest, California where I made a whopping $15 plus one snack per night.  My job mostly entailed chasing down drunk rednecks in the woods with a mag light and explaining that it is NOT classy to sneak into a 6 week old $3 movie when you are over the age of 30, nor is it classy to hit on the thirteen year old girl trying to stop you.  I endured a nightly playing of Lee Greenwood’s “Proud to be an American” and a pre-movie announcement that for the last 15 years has ended with the line, “put your seats and tray tables in their full and upright position folks, ’cause we’re gonna have a mooovie”.  I’ve had to tell adults as respectfully as possible that I know their prepubescent son or daughter is not actually under the age of five and therefore is not eligible to watch tonight’s production of “Mr. Magoo” for free, and I’ve suffered through “Gone Fishin'” starring Danny Glover more times than I’d like to admit. 

What really made this job evidence of my pending celebrity however, was my boss Dave.  Dave disliked me very much.  I was his only employee and I was not ideal and this was made very clear to me.  I had been recommended for the job by a family friend and Dave’s former lone employee, Heather.  Dave adored Heather.  Heather was as friendly and charismatic as I was somber-faced and awkward.  Unlike Heather, I was not a cute and chipper greeter of customers; I was braces-clad with hair like a carpet, and so many customers plowed into me on their way to their seats that I began to think that the green windbreaker I wore as a uniform made me look like a baby sapling.  Dave and I had several employee performance meetings where Dave would lament my lack of pep when approaching a paying customer and lack of vigor when approaching an intruder – Dave used break into a full and noisy sprint when he spotted one – and how I could use my sweet memories of Heather as an example of how to do it better. I worked for Dave for three summers and when I ran into him years later in Pinecrest, his exact words to me were, “why hello!  How’s Heather?”

Besides hating me, Dave sucked because he was basically Ned Flanders.  Annoyingly Christian and nice, but suspiciously gay acting and a touch self-righteous.  I once asked him if he had seen Shakespeare in Love and he grimaced and exclaimed, “no!” as if I had just asked him if he’d ever seen midget porn.  “Meg and I”, Dave explained, “do NOT see rated R movies”.  Talk about your typical theater owner film buff.  Anyway, Dave’s selective movie watching and superior morals were imposed upon all the visitors at the Pinecrest Theater.  If one of the PG movies Dave happened to be showing had a swear word (“sucks”) or a racy scene (kiss with tongue), Dave would turn off the audio or put his finger over the lens of the projector for that particular part, and then apologize for the “technical difficulties” over the loud speaker.  One year Dave got crazy and decided to show Titanic, but since it came on two reels, he just ended one early and started the other one several minutes into the second half in order to prevent showing the car or painting scene.  God forbid we see a hand slide down a steamy window or Kate Winslet’s titties, never mind the key plot points that got sacrificed in the process.  Think of the children!  When viewers would complain, Meg would just mutter “perverts” under her breath after they walked away and Dave would nod emphatically in agreement. 

So anyway, that was my first job.  Maybe I’ll make this blog into a weekly feature (I’ve got a lot of angst) until I reach my inevitable fame and fortune.  Perhaps in the meantime I’ll get a job that involves manual labor, like digging a septic tank or something.  That ought to ensure that I get one of those obnoxious celebrity couple name fusions like “Bennifer” that indicate an ultimate level of fame.  How do you combine Marea and Natalie Portman?  Marealie?  Natalrea?  Sorry Jill, I know you have dibs, but I’m going to have access…