Let's reminisce about awful part-time jobs, shall we?

We all suffer through crappy part-time jobs at one time or another. It’s the American way. For me, there was my multi-summer tenure as a camp counselor. (Oh, the stories I could tell about that job.) And then there were the high school years and college breaks spent saving away at Suburban Video. (I could write an effing book about what went down at that job.) And last but not least, the six months I spent working at a lawn and garden boutique on the city’s northside.

While many of us experience the joys of minimum wage and mandated uniforms during our teenage years, I just couldn't get enough. I worked at the aforementioned lawn and garden boutique when I was 22.

Background: When we moved into the city in October 2006, I was jobless. (A recurring theme for me, apparently.) Why move to the city when you don’t have a job? you ask. I had to. My parents gave me the boot.

Bless their hearts. They were simply nudging me out of the nest so I could spread my wings and fly or something like that. I get that. Now. But at the time I was all, “Move out by October? You know I’m unemployed, right?”

So we found a quaint (read: cheap) four bedroom place near Wrigley and I went and did the next logical thing. I got an unpaid internship. (Who said communications majors weren’t smart?) And to complement my 40 weekly hours of indentured servitude, I decided to get a waitress job at a bar.

Turns out, most bars in Wrigleyville aren’t exactly staffing up at the end of baseball season. (Who said communications majors weren’t smart?) Surprisingly, this lawn and garden boutique was looking for seasonal help in October, which I thought was weird, but whatever. It was just up the street from our apartment and I was getting desperate. I applied to the Craigslist posting and got myself an interview the following Saturday at 9 am.

So I worked a 40+ hour week (as unpaid interns desperate to be hired are wont to do) before experiencing my first fishbowl on Friday night. Bright and early the next morning, I dragged my bedraggled self in for my interview.

The owner was a nice guy. He said they needed someone for the holiday season when the store transformed from an urban oasis of patio furniture to a wintry wonderland. I can’t imagine I was very charming (what with the screaming headache, my dire need for water and the vodka wafting out my pores), but I was offered the job and asked to start the following week.

Yeah, sure, sign me up.

Except I had no idea what I was signing up for. I was the newest employee at a high-class lawn and garden boutique. We specialized in high-end patio furniture that cost more than I made in a month and would last longer than my trusty Ford Escort. It was probably the finest lawn and garden boutique this side of the Lincoln Park divide

I learned the difference between quality wrought iron tables and the crap they sold at Walmart. Solid wood Adirondacks, no assembly required? Honey, please. We sold nothing but the best. (Although judging by my hourly wages, we weren’t selling enough of it.)

I also learned this job required heavy lifting. And setting my alarm for an ungodly hour every Saturday and Sunday. And because a chic Moroccan restaurant by the same name had just opened in the West Loop, it also required I spend a good portion of my days fielding calls from eager diners desperate to score a reservation.

This job also demanded I wear an oversized t-shirt that was literally the color of poo. Now I’m not above wearing a uniform to work--my Suburban Video polo hung down to my knees and the staff t-shirts supplied by the summer camp were all sorts of tie-dyed. But it seemed to me that hawking lawn chairs that cost hundreds of dollars each called for a little class. I was wrong. I was to wear my ugly t-shirt every time I worked (no matter how chilly it was in the warehouse-type store) and if it was dirty, I could simply have another.

By mid-October, I had accumulated like 4 ugly work shirts. I had also moved (read: dragged across the cold cement floor) all the furniture off the sales floor and started decorating for Christmas. And I decorated the crap out of that store. We’re talking dozens nine-foot fake Fraiser firs loaded with ornaments. I even gave each tree a theme. I was the best damn decorator that store had ever employed.

And come January, I was the worst damn un-decorator in the history of decorating.

Ever notice how depressing it is to take down your own holiday decorations? Try taking down an entire storeful. While wearing a crap-colored shirt. Hungover.

It was like every weekend was the saddest weekend ever. Until the spring furniture started arriving and I realized I would be the one tasked with assembling each piece. Wait, I thought the store only bought high-end lawn furniture that came assembled by skilled craftsmen? Yeah, not anymore. And I’m really sorry to any residents of Lakeview who may have overpaid for “quality” patio furniture assembled by me. You may as well have given a monkey an Allen wrench and set him lose in the store. At least that way there would’ve been less swearing. (I get that from my dad.) When the gliding porch swing was delivered in 4 separate boxes, I knew my days were numbered.

Thankfully, I got a full-time copywriting job shortly thereafter. One that didn’t require waking up at 7 am on Saturdays or lifting anything more than a pencil and actually offered health insurance. And I never wore that ugly uniform again.

And from the looks of it, I'll never have to. A friend of mine emailed me today to let me know the place went out of business. It’s nothing more than an empty storefront with a for rent sign in front. Apparently they just couldn’t do it without me.

That, or my shoddy craftsmanship and cranky customer relations were the beginning of the end.

The Summer of George.

Remember that episode of Seinfeld where George realizes his severance from the Yankees is enough to last him three months? And he declares it the Summer of George?

I’m kind of in a similar situation. Except instead of severance, I’m looking at a freelance gig that’s probably going to end soon.

Taking a cue from Mr. Costanza (and seriously, shouldn’t we all?), I’m making a list of to-dos for the summer. And as homage, I’m stealing a few items off his list (thank you, Wikipedia, for providing the exhaustive list) and adding a few of my own.

Welcome to my Summer of George.

I will decompress. Luckily, my family vacation in Michigan is coming up. It's a pretty low-key thing. Seriously, we're not even going during peak travel season. It won't even be warm enough to boat. The most strenuous thing we'll do is dote on my cousin’s three-year-old because she’s 1.) adorable and 2.) the first baby to be born into the family since the Reagan administration. Believe me, it won’t be a taxing week.

I will read a book, from beginning to end, in that order. Judging by my last order from Amazon (Stupid easy one-click ordering. Stupid lack of self-control.), I will be reading a lot of books from beginning to end, in that order.

I will also be writing more. Granted, I set the bar pretty low with that one fake letter to Conan post in May. But still. More writing.

I will not, however, learn how to play frolf. I lack the hand-eye coordination to throw a frisbee, let alone catch one. I also lack any and all desire to play a game modeled after one of the dullest sports I can imagine.

I will watch television programming. Daytime tv has no soul, but that’s not going to stop me. I will probably watch enough Food Network to accidentally learn how to cook. And maybe even find out of Barefoot Contessa has even an ounce of personality.

I will take mid-morning naps. This requires no further explanation.

I will get a bike. Or I will continue to talk about getting a bike (like I have since moving to the city in October of ’06), but let my fear of riding along city streets prevent me from actually buying one. One or the other.

I will get my brakes fixed. Yes, I have been complaining about my brakes since April. And no, I don’t have a death wish.

I will go to Cubs games during days other than the weekend. Because my brother splits season tickets with his buddies and there’s little demand for those 1:20 Tuesday games. Especially with the way they've been playing lately. Yeesh.

I will get a tan. Welcome to the shallow end of my to-do list. Despite being of Scottish and Irish decent, my dad tans pretty well. My mom, a fair-skinned red head, does not. For the last twenty-something summers, I’ve been trying to lure my dominant genes out of submission so that I, too, can develop a nice golden tan. Unfortunately, I’ll probably burn like a bastard before peeling, freckling and finally emerging with a slight, sun-kissed glow.

I will act like my college self. Because no to-do list is complete without at least a few gimmes. And there’s just something about summer that brings out the nineteen-year-old in me.

Stay out until the birds are chirping? Sure. Eat trashy pizza during the wee hours of the morning? Yep. Wonder what the heck I'm going to do with myself after graduation? More or less--just replace "graduation" with "freelance project."

The way I see it, College Brenna is only appropriate from now until Labor Day. Just like white pants.

I will go to Italy. I will drink wine and eat gelato and gorge myself on as much fresh pasta as I can get my grubby little American hands on.

Of course, George’s Summer of George didn’t turn out quite as he expected. So fingers crossed mine goes better than his.




* Let’s not get all technical and point out that summer doesn’t officially start until June 21. Because this is Chicago. We have to make the most of our summers. And if you’re following that logic, then come December 19, when you’re schlepping through knee-deep slush and breathing in air that's so cold it makes the inside of your nose burn, I’m going to remind you that winter doesn’t start until December 21 and what you’re experiencing is just a chilly day in late fall.