Resume the résumé

I don't like writing résumés. I don't know anyone who does. Writing a résumé automatically means you are looking for a job, and looking for a job usually means some kind of need for a job.

I have a crazy job history. When I was a senior in high school, I was the weekend receptionist at a museum in a town so small that no one ever came into the museum on weekends. I memorized the exhibits in a month, and then spent the rest of my year of weekends practicing my typing, studying, listening to the radio, and sometimes -- yes, really -- I stretched out on a wooden church pew and napped.

I was a camp counselor during my college summers. I taught archery and directed little plays based on fairy tales from the Red Fairy Book. I wrote and directed the end-of-summer productions -- people, I'm telling you that I re-wrote and directed both Snow White and The Wizard of Oz -- as water ballets. Starring more than 70 little girls. And being watched by 140 rabid parents. People cried. I'm just sayin'. Is all.

College was a trying time. I worked in an eyeglasses store for two weeks. I sold women's clothing for a couple of weeks. (I never understood the rule that said we had to wear heels to work. Heels? Seriously?) I was a substitute teacher for a while. Much beloved by employed teachers, because I was certified. But still. Substitute. Teacher.

I once worked for a landscaping company that did the gardens of the Rich & Elite in Knoxville. For two and a half weeks, I got to pull weeds and prune tea roses behind some of the nicest mansions in town. And I found out that rich people really do not want the hired help peeing in their guest bathrooms. It's so funny -- these are the same people who rush up to me after a play and tell me how much they enjoy my performances. But they surely didn't feel that way when I was keeping the other landscapers from uprooting their malva alcea fastigiata.

I sold my soul and worked for an ad agency. Won some awards. Started to hate myself and old friends. Bought career clothes that put me into debt and wore out the transmission of a Camry from trying to navigate crazy Knoxville traffic.

Then I was a temp. I think that was the best job I ever had. It was always interesting; I didn't have to play office politics, and I was good at it. And there was always light at the end of the tunnel. Every single client for whom I worked also offered me a permanent position at the end of my tempdom, but I declined as politely as I could. If I had worked any place as a regular thing for a long period of time, I think I would've driven my new-used Camry into a retaining wall eventually.

And let's not forget that I worked at the grocery store for a month. A whole month!!! I am shocked I made it that long. I've been a freelance writer, and a homeschooling rabblerouser (although no one paid me for it), and lately I've been selling my crafty wares at crafty fairs.

I don't think I can count my acting gigs as work. Oh, sure, they paid me. (Thank God!) But really, that's too easy to be called work. I should list that on a whole new section of my résumé under the heading "Luck."

So now I'm supposed to go out and find a new job. I went to college; I can type. I've been a clerical or assisting type employee before. I can write. I am tidy and at least moderately well-behaved most of the time. I'm not cute or young any more, and I'm wondering if that's going to have an effect on my interviews.

I was going to call this post "catharsis" and talk about how much I would really like to go off on a crying jag today and just get it all out of my system. Instead, I decided to play with my résumé and some nifty cardstock that was lying on my scrap table in the scanner. Today I'll play with the résumé. Tomorrow I'll ponder my place in the world.

Oh, and of course -- I'll celebrate my sister Amy's birthday! Happy birthday, Yamy! You don't look a day older than 29. I'm not kidding. At all.