...but success it never comes

I have been working at my current job for 2 years today. Two years. Two long years, of which it took me a year and eight months to figure out a career that would not whittle away at my soul as I sat rocking back and forth in an uncomfortable "ergonomic" chair, watching my 401k fluctuate. So I thought I'd take a look back at the other jobs I've had, to see if I could learn anything else about myself. I'm wordy, so it'll probably happen a job at a time.

1. The summer after freshman year of college. Dollywood, Sevierville, TN.

No really. I worked at Dollywood. My friend L and I went there on the understanding that the college kids had a wicked awesome time and made all kinds of money and friends and had the kinds of meaningful life experiences that one can only hope to have in a third rate amusement park in the Smokey Mountains. Of those things, it is true that it was a third rate amusement park in the Smokey Mountains. We lived on campus in Knoxville in a dorm with no hot water, 45 minutes away from the park, and soon found out that the promised bus? Only for the Russian exchange students.

We probably should have left on the first day of training when L's car broke down and it was only via the intervention of Dolly Parton's Uncle Bill that we found a mechanic not inclined to rip us off. Car fixed, we soon found out just exactly what we would be doing at the park. Wearing costumes and helping small children and the elderly in and out of the log ride or the authentic-esque train? Manning the rock candy counter at one of the several tourist sugar-coma inducing general stores? Pointing visitors with multiple camcorders in the direction of the dress Dolly wore when singing "Islands in the Stream" with Kenny Rogers while the same song played on a continuous loop in the background where it would terrifyingly bore its way into your dreams at night? None of the above. Parking lot attendants. Or, Attractions Host II. Lesson learned. Ask just what exactly the job title means before you take the job.

Being a parking lot attendant is a multifaceted job, and every single facet happens to suck. The first day, they put me on duty at the handicapped parking drop-off, where dozens upon dozens of non-handicapped people screamed at me about how unhelpful I was and how they were for damn sure GOING to park there while they got their tickets. Clearly, I had missed the VIP sticker that allowed them to be king douche of big-man land. Couple this with the first of many monotonous comments on my uniform and how unattractive it was. Because clearly, given the choice, I would have picked the ill-fitting traffic-yellow polo shirt, beyond knee-length granny shorts (with a butterfly stamped on the ass so you wouldn't steal them, no less) and brown leather shoes, which are always stylish in the heat of July. "Hey, nice outfit, kid." Hey, nice fanny pack, tourist. I was in tears before lunch.

I would have been happy to spend weeks at the handicapped drop off, had I known that the next assignment was a 7:00am-2:00pm shift of lot duty and traffic directing. We were given buckets and pickers and told to walk the entire lot (the furthest part being about two miles from our station) picking up all the trash. I learned a lot about people on vacation on those days. Such as, paper and cigarettes are the least of one's worries when cleaning up after people who are determined (by-God) to have a wonderful time away from home. Far more commonly than you would think, we picked up dirty diapers, used condoms, spit-cups (and if you think that doesn't sound so bad, you should probably never hang out with southerners who dip), rotten food, and used tampons. About three weeks in, an elderly coworker told us to never use our hands to pick anything up. I hate to think about the kind of person who regarded that tidbit as news.

I suppose the least horrible duty (besides toll-booth, which rocked in its solitude and simplicity, so we naturally never got assigned to it) was tram conductor. This involved sitting backwards in a moving tram that was originally a fixture at Disneyland in the 1960s (really - your grandparents totally rode on that tram) with no seat belt and talking to visitors through a microphone that simply could not overcome the bumpy road, shockless tires, and overall decrepitude of the system. As an added bonus, we were required to police baby strollers. Opening up an entirely new can of angst in my life.

Trams are, by nature (by which I mean the convoluted nature at Dollywood) open air contraptions. Save for the one nice tram, the "MILLION DOLLAR TRAMSTAR," which was treated as though it was made of gold and promptly died when the last car came unattached from the others and was left there in the road until the tow truck came, the other trams were crap. No denying this. They looked old and unsafe. And they were, even without the legions of morons who thought, "Hey. Lemme jump onto a moving tram. I've been meaning to break my leg." These people are the reason that I (L tells me) sat straight up in bed one night and yelled "Stay behind the yellow line!" I hated those people. Anyway. Strollers.

I hate strollers. I hate it when they are used at shopping carts while parents complain about how heavy their baby is. I hate it when children who are perfectly capable of walking are rolled around, complaining about it all the livelong day. I really hate it when the pack of stroller mommies hell-bent on getting the bargain to end all bargains rams me in the back of the ankle in the mall at Christmas time, glaring at me for corrupting their child when I swear in pain. At Dollywood, we were forced to keep empty strollers as well as strollers full of crap inside the trams, which were inevitably driven by extremely senile old people who took corners like they were nitroglycerin pills, all while we also held a microphone and bantered with visitors about the homemade ice cream. The worst were the little umbrella strollers, which fly off the trams all willy-nilly, upsetting the parents who paid, what, $12 for them? And then entrusted them to me? Whatever, man. Actually, the worst were Baby Joggers: gigantic, brakeless contraptions that do not collapse and thereby just sort of roll off the tram. If you have triplets, I get it. If you're a jogger, fine. If you have one kid who can totally walk, a penchant for shopping for big creepy dolls and other sundries which do not fit in an easily carried bag, and clearly have never been running in your whole life, you do not need a Baby Jogger and also, I hate you.

However, all this is nothing compared to the requests that we take on strollers with sleeping children in them while the parents grab a seat in the back. I suppose the reasoning was, "Hey honey, Annimaddison and Chauncey are asleep, let's have this teenager in the snazzy pants who is covered in sweat and clearly thrilled to be working in the 6th or 7th happiest place on Earth watch them sleep in this giant stroller with no breaks while simultaneously keeping an eye on the lecherous old guy to make sure he doesn't skip a stop or run over some guy jumping the barrier... Wouldn't want to risk having a grumpy child in MY car." After a few times of explaining that no, this is against park policy (and probably the law), I gave up that tack and just told them there was a high probability that their child could end up as a grimy place on the pavement. Some were still undeterred, but I assume that these were the same people who got revenge by leaving me their kid's diaper to pick up the next day.

Dollywood was perhaps the longest two months of my life. After the first month, I was given a review for the chance to get a raise, up to a full dollar more per hour. I got $.19. Apparently, despite showing up everyday and not being lucky enough to get knocked-up over the summer like one college coworker, I was docked for not socializing with my coworkers during free time, which basically amounted to my lunch half hour.

So that's Dollywood. It's actually not my worst job ever. But I'll get to that.

Ta,
Kate