When I originally started the temp job in 2014, it was understood I was there to do grunt work to help get the two full-timers caught up on the back log and give them some breathing room to work on new projects; and for a couple of weeks, that’s what I did. My term for this is “Production Monkey” – basically, it means I was doing work so basic and simple that a chimpanzee could probably be taught to do it if someone had the time and wherewithal. Contrary to popular belief, I don’t have a problem with being a Production Monkey – it’s easy, it’s relatively stress-free, it needs to get done, and someone has to be paid to do it, so it may as well be ME. And since it is easy work, I don’t charge as much to do it.
Problem was, I didn’t stay the Production Monkey – the next catalog was coming due. The late senior graphic designer had been the primary artist on catalogs, and now he was gone – the only other person in the Graphics department with anywhere near the same amount of catalog production experience was me, so my friend, the acting Marketing Manager, asked me to take on the task. And since she is my friend – and since I knew she was trying to move from acting to permanent Marketing Manager – I agreed. Twelve months later, I finished my second catalog; by this time, my friend had taken a position with a different company after being passed up for Marketing Manager; and I was still being paid as a Production Monkey, even though I had taken on the role of Catalog/Print Production Specialist and Graphic Designer, significantly harder jobs deserving significantly more money.
So I told the HR department “It’s been a year, and I’m doing far more than what I was contracted to do. I’d love to stick around and keep doing what I’m doing, but if I’m to do that, I need a raise to a rate in keeping with my job duties.” When I didn’t get an answer right away, I pushed the issue, which got me a meeting with the HR director and the new Graphics Department Director – twenty minutes later, I was in my Mustang with my sunglasses on, heading home. Officially, I had completed my contract with the company – unofficially, the company was going to find someone cheaper than me to do work.
That was six months ago. I’m still looking for a daytime gig to help keep the lights turned on. So far, I’ve interviewed with three different temporary/placement agencies who all seem very enthusiastic about getting me into a position, they send off my packet, and then I don’t hear from the account reps again. Evidently, the enthusiasm is for having a fresh new packet to send off to their clients, not for the prospect of earning some money off of my work ethic.
I should be horribly depressed. I should be shaken to my core what I thought would be a few days, maybe a couple of weeks off, has developed into nearly half a year without a steady paycheck. But I’m not. I feel great.
That’s what a steady diet of singing will do for you – it keeps you feeling great.
Friends of my parents are celebrating their fiftieth wedding anniversary in November, asked if I would be the evening’s entertainment. My guitar wizard nephew agreed to accompany me, so I’ve been rehearsing new songs for the private show. We’re a little-pigeon-holed by only having the one acoustic guitar for the show, but that’s also forced me to consider songs I wouldn’t normally – got tunes from Wilco, The Verve Pipe, Death Cab for Cutie, Kings of Leon, and maybe even The Foo Fighters in the mix with the classics from The Beatles, Ben E. King, and Dion I made sure to include for the older folks in the crowd. The band had gigs all Spring, took a couple of weeks off to spend some time with the families, and started up rehearsals in June for the two July gigs on the calendar. Because the guys aren’t content to rest of their laurels, the band is learning some new songs, a couple that are a major stretch of our skills. Because I’m crazy and don’t know how to say “No,” I agreed to join the cast of The Vagabond Players’ first-ever musical, Little Shop of Horrors, as the voice of Twoey, the singing killer plant from outer-space. As one of the few members of the cast with actual professional singing experience, I sort of slid into the role of co-musical director with the lovely, extremely talented woman playing Audrey, who spends her days as the theatre teacher at a local high school – out of the blue, I’m teaching actors (some of whom have never sung a day in their lives) basic singing techniques, finding and correcting sour notes in the chord, and expounding the virtue of making that emotional connection to the song to better convey the story to the audience.
So for the past few weeks, I’ve been officially rehearsing six days a week, sometimes twice a day; and unofficially rehearsing all seven days: singing songs from my band, my private show, and my musical in the shower, the car, parking lots, and even in my sleep. I’m always on my way somewhere else, so I’m grabbing sandwiches and snacks to munch in the car. I’m getting to bed later and later. I am in a state of constant worry, fretting that I’m not doing enough or that I’ve taken on too much, I can’t decide which.
And I’m all smiles. I’m singing all the time. I’m learning new songs and what the songs mean to me. I’m testing the boundaries of my range. I’m sharing my knowledge with others. I’m rehearsing for events outside my comfort zone.
It is so cool.
Still looking for that daytime gig – the world still revolves around those little green fun tickets, and we don’t have any left at my house – which I do every morning before I start anything else. But once the disappointment of being turned down for a job I’m suited for yet again is over, I’m back to music, and immediately, my day turns fantastic. Time to turn this into a paying proposition, I just enjoy this feeling too much.