You Pay Someone for That??
Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be some weird amateur expose on prostitution or how sex sells. Mostly because even if I wanted to, I don’t have the money to buy it nor the body to sell it, so it wouldn’t be all that interesting or factual. Also because the last time I had a conversation about that subject, it devolved into an extremely stupid argument about whether Hooters girls are being exploited and sexualized or simply using the good looks they were born with to increase their earning potential while having to work as a waitress. I’ve waited tables, and I can say with complete authority if I’d had the body for it, I promise I would have happily donned the fluorescent short shorts and a push up bra faster than you could say, “Excuse me, miss?” with nary a qualm. For all of you shouting, “Oh, but it’s so degrading for those poor girls,” you know what else is degrading? Wearing a vest and bow tie while trying to fish a lobster out of a tank in front of a cheering crowd for a four dollar tip. Trust.
Anyhow, the other day, I got some random email from a site I must have registered for during my desperate days of unemployment. It was advertising some degree and certification programs when one of them caught my eye and I thought, “Wait – the fuck? There’s a certification program for organizing your house? What is happening here?” And thus came up with a list of jobs that are apparently born from the realization that we are so lazy and stupid that we are willing to pay someone to do almost anything so we don’t have to deal with it. Here we go.
Sure, it sounds good in theory. Pay someone to help realize your untapped potential, uncover your hidden talents, discover what you were really meant to do in life. Are you really SUCCEEDING as an accountant? Should you follow your dream to become a world-famous sculptor instead? Your life coach will help you find your inner happiness, your true calling in life. Here’s the thing. There’s a good chance that this life coach that you’re paying to help you realize your true calling in life? Doesn’t have any fucking idea what theirs is. Instead, they have some drive and ambition, a decent head for marketing, and a thousand bucks to pay for the course. Do you know what that means? That means I could be a life coach, folks. I am fucking fabulous at taking tests – I promise you I could ace this class. Sure, my husband decided to have popsicles for dinner and my cats are sitting on the kitchen table, but hey, your life? I can totally fix that. I got this certificate to prove it.
Nope. Just fucking no. Of course you want your pet happy. I want my pets happy. You know how I make that happen? I feed them, clean up their poop, and give them a warm place to live. I give them love and attention, I let them sleep on my head, scratch my furniture, and buy them toys and treats that are good for their well-being. And if they’re not happy after that? Fuck em. I’ll still love them, I’ll still take care of them, but yeah, I’m going to resent them a little bit. In much of my research as to why my small cat finds it necessary to occasionally relieve himself in places other than the litterbox, I found several articles from these professionals explaining that my pet is stressed, and is “voicing his displeasure,” by acting out. You know what, doctor? I’m stressed too. You know what adds to my stress? Waking up in the middle of the night and having to change my sheets. You don’t see me taking a shit in the cat bed, do you? No. That cat is clean, well fed, and safe. If he feels “threatened,” by the different noises in the new apartment, too fucking bad. Adjust. If I don’t get Prozac, he certainly doesn’t. You know why? He’s a CAT. He’ll be fine. Promise.
At work, I’m pretty organized. My job often requires keeping a lot of plates spinning at the same time, and for the most part, I’m relatively good at keeping them all in the air. At home, however, I kind of fall off the wagon. In the past couple of years, the list of things I have lost (and found again) is simply ridiculous for a grown adult to misplace. They include: my crockpot, winter boots, an entire set of tools, my good knife, a garbage can, winter coat, my Kindle, my husband’s wallet, two phones, a set of cutlery, the remote control, my neighbor’s favorite sweatshirt, a significant amount of Halloween decorations, and the glass shelves to my china cabinet. Things I have never lost sight of include a random collection of forty dice, a solid brass monkey that holds a hackey sack, a singing stuffed chicken, four candles that I’ve had since 2005 and never lit despite having zero personal significance, and a box of collected rocks that neither of us can recall ever gathering. One might argue that I could benefit from a professional organizer. If you can believe it, there is a entire association of professional organizers, and you have to have been practicing in the industry for 1,500 hours before you can even become ELIGIBLE to take the test required to become certified. So maybe they could help me. Or, instead of giving them money, maybe I could use a combination of common sense – stop being so lazy and throw out the goddamn box of rocks, dummy – and my mother’s advice, “Get a goddamn calendar and put shit back where it goes,” and voila! I’ve saved a couple hundred bucks and I can find my silverware.
Then again, all of these people are managing to make money completing basic, everyday tasks, while I go to work every day, so who the hell am I to judge?