Several people have wondered why, in the name of all that is sacred, would I give up my mind-blowingly enviable life of great wealth and fame in the freelance writing world to do temp work.
Well, despite what you might think, the freelance opportunities aren't exactly hurtling at me with great speed and frequency. I blame Bush and his in-the-toilet economy, for one thing. Then there's the fact that our esteemed pit of bureaucracy, known as the University, somehow decided that there might be some sort of conflict of interest with Tim working there and me offering my writing services to various campus departments (that have absolutely nothing at all to do with Tim's office, I'd point out). Because of some wacky state law, all of my work with the University was put on a freeze until May or June when the Board of Regents reviews my situation. Seeing as how about 75 percent of my freelancing comes from the UI, I was presented with a bit of a problem.
Enter, the administrative staffing services -- i.e., my temp agency. I had to take some tests to prove I was temp material (which, from what I've seen of the other temps at my current job, consists of making sure I had a pulse and could count to 10 -- 8 might be acceptable). The tests I took indicated I was "above average," or that I scored higher than most of the other temps they have. Like I said, not exactly a tough task. Still, I was pleased with my 55 words a minute typing, my high percentile scores for Microsoft Office programs and my oustanding basic office and customer service skills.
I'm honestly not being snarky about the lack o' talent in the temp pool. The guy who started at my current job the same day I did lasted two days, then the supervisor canned him. As my agency contact described this job, "it's certainly not rocket science." And indeed, the guy was not a rocket scientist. He could barely walk and... walk at the same time.
Our job, document preparation, consists of getting piles of insurance claims and sorting through them, removing staples, taping loose receipts to pieces of paper, making copies, making sure all the papers are turned the right way, and sticking a bar code sheet between each claim so that the claims can be scanned into a computer and sent to the claims people who decide whether to deny or approve some corporate executive's wife's $15,000 Botox injection submissions.
The organizational geek in me loves finding the order in paperwork chaos. It's easy work, I sit by myself most of the day, listening to CNN or my iPod. It's definitely not something I'd want to do with my life, but that's the beauty of "temp," isn't it. At least it's paying a bill or two.
And it's only a month-long assignment. I have three weeks to go. And I have two applications out right now for permanent editorial jobs.
For now, I'm trying to find the humor in the fact that everyone treats me like the crap on their shoe because they think I'm just another one of those barely-walking-upright, knuckle-dragging temps. These are the details that could make a funny scene in that book I say I'm going to finish writing one of these days.
It's research. That's what I'll keep telling myself.
Well, despite what you might think, the freelance opportunities aren't exactly hurtling at me with great speed and frequency. I blame Bush and his in-the-toilet economy, for one thing. Then there's the fact that our esteemed pit of bureaucracy, known as the University, somehow decided that there might be some sort of conflict of interest with Tim working there and me offering my writing services to various campus departments (that have absolutely nothing at all to do with Tim's office, I'd point out). Because of some wacky state law, all of my work with the University was put on a freeze until May or June when the Board of Regents reviews my situation. Seeing as how about 75 percent of my freelancing comes from the UI, I was presented with a bit of a problem.
Enter, the administrative staffing services -- i.e., my temp agency. I had to take some tests to prove I was temp material (which, from what I've seen of the other temps at my current job, consists of making sure I had a pulse and could count to 10 -- 8 might be acceptable). The tests I took indicated I was "above average," or that I scored higher than most of the other temps they have. Like I said, not exactly a tough task. Still, I was pleased with my 55 words a minute typing, my high percentile scores for Microsoft Office programs and my oustanding basic office and customer service skills.
I'm honestly not being snarky about the lack o' talent in the temp pool. The guy who started at my current job the same day I did lasted two days, then the supervisor canned him. As my agency contact described this job, "it's certainly not rocket science." And indeed, the guy was not a rocket scientist. He could barely walk and... walk at the same time.
Our job, document preparation, consists of getting piles of insurance claims and sorting through them, removing staples, taping loose receipts to pieces of paper, making copies, making sure all the papers are turned the right way, and sticking a bar code sheet between each claim so that the claims can be scanned into a computer and sent to the claims people who decide whether to deny or approve some corporate executive's wife's $15,000 Botox injection submissions. The organizational geek in me loves finding the order in paperwork chaos. It's easy work, I sit by myself most of the day, listening to CNN or my iPod. It's definitely not something I'd want to do with my life, but that's the beauty of "temp," isn't it. At least it's paying a bill or two.
And it's only a month-long assignment. I have three weeks to go. And I have two applications out right now for permanent editorial jobs.
For now, I'm trying to find the humor in the fact that everyone treats me like the crap on their shoe because they think I'm just another one of those barely-walking-upright, knuckle-dragging temps. These are the details that could make a funny scene in that book I say I'm going to finish writing one of these days.
It's research. That's what I'll keep telling myself.
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