The Good Ship Luxury

Giiiiiiirl!

You may or may not have noticed my conspicuous absence from SnigWigs as of late. This is most likely due to the fact that I have been HATING MY LIFE due to the recent string of horrifying jobs I've been working. My temp agency seems determined to make my hard-hitting expose, Hold Still: This is Only Temporary, a reality in the very near future. Hello, grizzled journalism! (Please, be gentle. I'm soft and defenseless.)

Anyway, it all started about a week ago. I'd just finished working at another of my random reception jobs where I usually got to mess around all day and g-chat to my heart's content. I'd gotten used to having little to nothing asked of me, be it physical, mental, or emotional. I was a breathing houseplant, basically. Are you beginning to notice the past tense here? That's because this ship has motherfucking sailed. No more freedoms for this little lady! It's all button pushing and oceans of mascara tears from here on out.

You see, I'm now working deep in the trenches of luxury hell. After a short stint shifting boxes in a warehouse last Friday (read: me, in a dress, breaking down boxes and cursing my life as I pissedly toss Loreal promotional products into piles), I'm now working at a well-known jewelry company. However, it's not all trying on diamonds and giggling. (Can you believe it?)

• In order for me to gain entrance to my data entry cubicle (shudder), I must go through EIGHT locked doors, leave all my personal belongings at a security checkpoint, and be patted down.
• Any drinks I take with me into my work area cannot be taken out, in the event that anyone should try to smuggle a four pound gold chain to the outside within the unsuspicious confines of a Snapple bottle.
• Any time I have go to the bathroom, I am forced to awkwardly take my shoes off and have an armed security guard go over my entire body with a metal detecter.

The actual job is so boring that I won't even try to make light of it. It just sucks, plain and simple.

Today I was taken on a tour of the "showroom" area on the floor above production (where I work), and it made me realize just how horrific my situation is. Basically, I'm in the metaphorical bowels of the ship -- let's call it "Titanic," just for the sake of discussion.

There is a tangible class divide between my floor and the showroom. The people above me are basically all wearing "Heart of the Ocean" necklaces (Ah-LITERALLY), swimming in diamonds (MORE LITERALLY) and laughing the day away in front of their walls of windows. Meanwhile, I shovel metaphorical coal under fluorescent lights only to get a blister on my pointer finger from all the data I've hen-picked into the ancient DOS computer they've set me up on.

In other words, that's why I haven't been blogging. Amenz!