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“I don’t know what inspiration is, but when it comes I hope it finds me working.” -Pablo Picasso
Just about every college bound kid I know has an impressive record of digging ditches in Cambodia, planning the prom, singing on stage and scoring soccer goals. According to one admissions counselor friend, the extracurriculars are a dime a dozen, “If you want to distinguish yourself as a high school student these days, what you really need to do is get a job.
Many kids seem to think J-O-B is a four-letter word, but my parents had an ingenious method of motivating my sister and I to go to work: they refused to buy us all of the things that we wanted.
We had to earn our own cash if we wanted to keep ourselves in Ditto jeans, Bonnie Bell Lip Smackers and John Hughes movies. Thus began my own intricately tailored vocational education program.
I started out babysitting for families in my neighborhood, a surreal experience since we lived on a block of almost identical tract houses. There’s something very disconcerting about snooping through the drawers in a bedroom exactly like your mother’s, only to find compromising pictures of your current employers.
Rule number one in the quest for the perfect job: it can’t be anything that tempts you into embarrassing behavior.
Next I handed out food samples-Gorp, Country Time Lemonade and Pringles were among the products I peddled to shoppers at the old Santa Cruz Market on the Mesa, which has since been yuppified into Lazy Acres. It was fun flirting with the box boys and peeking in people’s carts, but I wasn’t allowed to sit down on this job, not even for a minute.
Rule number two: you don’t come home from the perfect job with aching feet.
My next job was working at Harvey’s Tennis Shop on upper State Street, now the home of BB’s Knits. This was a great gig. I mostly remember giggling, trying on clothes and getting lunch at Petrini’s … until the owners got wise and figured out that they really didn’t need two teenage girls (me and my best friend) working all day Saturdays to service just a handful of customers.
Rule number three: make sure your employer is going to stay in business.
I was now addicted to trying on clothes, so when the tennis shop closed I jumped at the chance to work at Rumor’s in Piccadilly Square (the precursor to Paseo Nuevo). Little did I know that my future husband was toiling away nearby at Hot Biscuits, I was too distracted by my job in fashion heaven. My entire paycheck–and then some–seemed to go back to my employer, but that was definitely my best-dressed year ever.
Rule number four: it’s great to work for love, but you do need to take home some money.
As a waitress at the Lobster House (now that fake lighthouse on Cabrillo Blvd. with a Rusty’s Pizza Parlor) I learned some important lessons from the manager: you balance a tray from the inside out; the customer is always right, even that old lady who tips you in pennies; Frank Sinatra has a song for almost any situation; and most importantly, even when you do get good tips, it’s hard to appreciate them in a clam chowder-stained yellow polyester uniform and white nurses’ shoes.
Rule number five: the perfect job will include the perfect outfit–comfortable and cute.
My next job was working at the snack bar at Cathedral Oaks Tennis Club (now Cathedral Oaks Athletic Club) followed by a stint behind the desk. It was a lot of fun, but I was envious seeing my friends playing tennis, while I supplied their Gatorade and court assignments.
Rule number six: the perfect job should make others jealous, (i.e. “You really get to sit around and write all day?”) but not me!
Speaking of envy-worthy gigs, one of the best ones I had was working security at the County Bowl. That’s right, I was one of those girls in the attractive yellow windbreakers looking through your purse. But unlike the courteous crew they now have–who send you to the office to check in your illegal cans, bottles and alcohol–in those days we confiscated it all for the post-party.
Rule number seven: beer before wine makes you feel fine, but confiscated liquor makes you feel sicker.
Basically all of these pre-college jobs taught me more about what I didn’t want to do than what I did. Looking back at all my jobs, I only wish that when I was applying to colleges they had put more weight on my employment history. With a resume like mine, I definitely would have gotten into Oxford.