Jenny’s US Weekly recently told me that my future wife Idina Menzel and her husband Taye Diggs are still going strong.   I’m expecting her coming out announcement to rock Broadway any day now, but I am reluctant to report that I am not yet writing this as one of the paparazzi hounded halves of Mardina or Bluezel.  Shockingly, I’m not dating any A-list celebrities at the moment, and frankly I’m becoming a bit anxious.  It’s been nearly two years since the blog in which a younger, more brazen Marea claimed that her shitty job history would  inevitably result in fame, fortune and a celebrity couple name fusion indicating an ultimate level of unearned Hollywood success.  

Since today is my one year anniversary at The Active Network – not a bad job but my only press so far has been a blurb in the Active “Weekend Warriors” report, and the only celebrity recognition I’ve gotten was being called Ellen by some dickhole at the company Christmas party – I thought it was time to reevaluate my plan of action.  And since I’m sure you all thought you’d be snorting coke in nightclubs across LA as prestigious members of my celebrity posse by now, I thought I owed you an update.

To start, I stand by my theory.  The worse the job before stardom, the bigger the star.  Since I don’t technically have any discernable talents that would merit fame, I feel like I shouldn’t really force my fate with something silly like auditions or agents.  I think my best bet is to put the karma of my theory into action by blogging some more about my shitty job history.

That said…

I’m not ready to talk about driving shuttles yet – those wounds are still too fresh – and I only put in about a month at Zoom Zoom Delivery before I realized that I was not being adequately compensated for my pipe deliveries to abandoned industrial yards in Compton.  So writing about my driving résumé just isn’t going to be enough to get me laid by the star of Juno right now.

Wright Silkscreen?  My ex-bosses Jimmy and Tremel are still my Myspace “friends”, so I don’t think I should bitch about how the former was an obese narcoleptic who used to literally fall asleep and snore mid-conversation, or how the latter decided his future was in the lucrative “cyber-casino” industry and ended up firing me via text message.  I know that my value to the company rested solely on my ability to enter their hourly cigarette purchases into their shady expense reports (entertainment? food?), but if I ever decide to get back into the poorly run shirt printing biz again, I might need a reference.

There are always the medical studies I did during the summers when I was too lazy to get a job…  but I think I’ll save the story about laying in my own piss for 6 hours after tipping over my bedpan because I couldn’t be detached from my insulin drip for another time.

I think I’m going take it back to Pinecrest, CA, home of the Pinecrest Movie theater – the summer hot spot referenced in my first blog – and share just a few brief memories about the second worst job of my life: Pinecrest Lake Snack Shack employee.  

To really paint a picture of my chronic underachievement in all things work related, I’m going to start by saying that I was an employee at the Snack Shack for three consecutive summers and was never promoted to the cash register.  Actually, the last summer I worked there the register was manned exclusively by my manager’s fourteen year old daughter who also happened to be the valedictorian of her Pinecrest Middle School graduating class of eight students.  Being less academically accomplished than Jessica, I rotated between the Mr. Frostee machine and deep fryer before being moved to burger flipper, the most prestigious position I held during my tenure.

It never really bothered me much that I didn’t work the register – who wants to take sopping twenties from lake-goers who are letting all ten of their filthy children choose their own ice cream favor?  Jessica was way better at smiling vacantly at people in heinous swim suit prints and Hawaiian shirts than I would have been anyway.  What did bother me was that my lack of involvement in the ordering process meant I had to be the kid who delivered food out the pickup window after people had been waiting an unacceptable amount of time for their mediocre burgers.  As it turns out, hungry vacationers are the meanest, most self-righteous people alive.  I personally wouldn’t expect prompt, delicious cuisine from an establishment the size of an outhouse – I mean it’s a snack shack folks, not a snack culinary academy – but apparently people on vacation feel entitled to fine dining, even when that vacation involves a motor home.

Our kitchen had such a small grill that on really busy summer days, people could wait up to 45 minutes for an extremely overcooked burger.  I realize this is ridiculous service, but what pissed me off was that people would yell at me about it as if I had some control over the output of our shitty kitchen equipment.

“Umm, excuse me, GIRL?  We have been waiting for our cheeseburgers for over half an hour.”

“I’m so sorry, sir, we just have one small grill.  We should have them for you in just a few minutes”. 

“Well, you really need to have much larger appliances if you expect to stay in business.  Why don’t you just BUY another barbeque?!”

Seriously?  Do I look like the owner?  I’m not even working the register.  I’m wearing a hot pink Snack Shack t-shirt with mustard streaks.  I am a high school student with persistent acne that has been intensified by my face’s daily exposure to fryer oil.  You just watched me drag an overflowing bag of trash out the side door with a cloud of flies surrounding my head like a Sally Struthers child.  I am clearly not a person of extreme influence.  

During these conversations, I always wondered if people expected a eureka!-like look of wonder to spread slowly across my face as if I was experiencing a profound revelation.  

“A larger…grill…A LARGER GRILL!  Brilliant sir, just brilliant!  Jessica, come quickly, this gentleman has just saved the family business!  Sunshine, drop the spatula – Lacy, stop deep frying that veggie burger – we’ve already wasted so much time!  To the grill store!” 

This is really just a small taste of my experiences at the Snack Shack.  I could go on for hours about the crazies I used to work with – my manager Sunshine once wrapped a raw patty in a bun and frisbeed it out the window after someone complained about their burger being burnt – but I have to go because my one year anniversary has been sort of slow and I am actually writing this at work.  Maybe I can manage to get myself fired from the one job I’ve found tolerable in the last 10 years.  That can only add to my karma.

And really, I shouldn’t complain.  After the plethora of comments I received after the first addition of this blog, it’s clear that the misery of my past attempts to bring the bacon has been shared by many.  I guess it’s a bit presumptuous to assume you people will even be in my celebrity posse instead of members of my influential Hollywood circle.  Maybe we’ll all have a Nicki and Paris thing going on.  Do they still kick it?  Jenny I need to borrow your US Weekly again…  

PS – Jill, the day after your wedding, all your “dibs” selections are forever void.  I’m going to go ahead and preemptively claim Jennifer, Natalie and Padma.  Sorry, that’s just what you get in exchange for eternal happiness.