Losing Sleep and Abandoning my Self-Respect in This Crappy Economy

So, my wise-ass attempt to deal with our dwindling economy has proven fruitless thus far. Despite the fact that I am now employed, the noise of the crazy alarmists in Arizona bellowing about the massive economic meltdown that is bound to occur in the next 90 to 120 days is enough to make me shiver a little bit. [These whack jobs are predicting door-to-door searches for food, hardcore martial law, and a New World Order. It sounds like a bad version of Dawn of the Dead.] Between that and the flashy, omnipresent Myspace advertisements for the The Institute for Human Continuity it seems I have at best like 3 years left on the planet… And they might be spent in a FEMA concentration camp near Tijuana. It really is enough to interrupt my sleep patterns and half-marathon training.

In other news, I am trying to find a second job to rip this whole credit card debt thing off my ass like so much crusty band-aid. My thought is that if I spend 14 hours a day working, one hour a day working out, and the other nine hours negotiating my homeless lifestyle, I should have this whole debt thing wrapped up by mid-August… Just in time for my half-marathon. I have applied for about 5 server jobs, including one at Phileas Foggs restaurant in Poway, where I would be required to wear some odd kilt-y school girl outfit. So far haven’t heard back from anyone, which is greatly disappointing, but not all that surprising.

But here’s my rant… Everytime I walk into a restaurant to fill out an application, it feels like I am being assessed in terms of how good I look and how much [or more accurately, how little] I weigh. Is this a America’s Next Top Model? Do I need to be Jessica Alba to write down an order and return with the foods of choice? Excuse my moment of vanity, but I am not a bad-looking chick, either. I also marvel at how much information these restaurants seem to want on their applications. Is it just me, or does it seem like it should not require a crew of extremely coordinated brain cells to distribute a bowl of clam chowder or pour some Jack Daniels on ice?

Perhaps the answer lies in really highlighting my cleavage.

~ by California Girl in The Mitten on February 4, 2009.