I keep looking for a job but it occasionally strikes me (after hours of perusing want ads and finding nothing viable) that I am the pickiest (or laziest) applicant ever to put in an application (or not).
For example, one of the very few things I love to do is care for babies before they can walk, talk or think for themselves. I have this skewed image of myself as Aunt Jemima, a loving, caring baby mama. Reality: I am happy to hold the baby, caress it, love it, speak sweetly to it, as long as it gazes into my eyes like a retarded deer.
The moment said infant does not appear to like me I go on the defensive. I begin to notice negative qualities previously ignored, cradle cap and ear wax. If the child continues to reject my love & affection I eventually forget I ever had a positive thought about that unappreciative, ugly baby.
When looking for positions caring for infants there are usually other complications, like older children. Can I care for older children? Yes. But quite often parents who pay upwards of $15/hour for childcare want things like “occasional preparation of meals, bathing and help with homework.” Those words freak me out as if I was being asked to install power in a nuclear plant.
Feeding people makes my head spin like a barn in a twister. ”Good” parents think their children should be fed well, like on plates, at a table with healthy food. I can’t even come close to pulling that off all at once. No doubt one of the little tykes would dislike cheese or tomato sauce or meat. I would be expected to express love and understanding and I can’t do that. I have friends with picky kids and I’m tempted to throw them in my dryer and see if a few spins would teach them the beauty of sandwich crust.
Yes, I could make microwaveable macaroni & cheese, although sometimes measuring the water and perfecting the time is a problem. Real meals stress me out. And 3 times a day?! I just don’t want to do it. The expectations are too high. The mess is too big. The children are too needy.
Baths are like dusting, they’re only going to be dirty again tomorrow. The kids cry when you poke them in the eye with the shampoo bottle or empty it over their heads while they’re screaming. I get anxious and tired and want to drown myself in the sink.
The last time I gave my great nieces and nephews a bath they acted as if I was putting them in a pot to boil. They kept crying “Waa, waa, waa.” Self fulfilling prophecy. I used a wash cloth a little too roughly and before you knew it one of them was bleeding. Seriously, are you fucking kidding me, kids are not supposed to bleed that easily. Mine never did and that’s no doubt a good thing.
Cleaning someone else’s house while watching their children? Oh my, I never did that in my own home. You need to take a breather while they’re napping, even if it’s for five hours. They might not sleep again for ages. Also, I saw a story once about a kid drowning in a mop bucket and have PTSD.
I become completely depressed visualizing the drama of a child with reflux and what would no doubt happen when I forgot the rule about never laying the child flat on his or her back. Calling for an ambulance, doing CPR, those are the kinds of things that call for an emergency trip to Dairy Queen on the way to the hospital.
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Eventually I’m forced to say “fuck it” and move on to the legal area. I’ve been a secretary and word processor for attorneys in the past. Except I always found placement in places where expectations were relatively low, which made me look unrealistically good. Those kinds of positions don’t just come your way out of the blue. You need either a spectacularly lazy lawyer who doesn’t really care what’s going on in the office or one with low self-esteem who takes on the boring tasks himself.
I imagine my employers asking me questions like, “Seriously, you were a legal secretary for how many years? In what country?” I imagine people pointing and laughing at my inability to make charts. It’s not that I couldn’t eventually learn how, I just don’t want to make charts. A little bitch inside my head thinks charts are for serfs.
If anything mentioned in the advertisement leads me to believe I’ll have to do menial labor, like make copies, that’s kind of a deal breaker. I had one job where I had to make thousands of copies and got horrible paper cuts. So now I go to the extreme and imagine that all jobs involving a copy maching will leave me standing in front of it for hours per day.
It’s just another ridiculous reason to skip to the next ad.
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Sometimes I peruse the counselor listings. I have no training as a counselor but I’ve always thought I would make a good one. Except for the fact that I hate it when people complain repetitively and to a great extent crying freaks me out.
After an hour or so I’m down to dribs and drabs.
I begin looking at driver positions and things in the human services field.
But taxi drivers deal with vomit and in my OCD brain all strangers have bedbugs.
I would sell my plasma but am diabetic.
Employment is complicated.