Day Job

What color is Dr. Laura's cheese?

Several years ago, an idiot ex-boyfriend** of mine got this book as a Christmas present and decided to adopt it as his own personal gospel. (Well, that and this book, too. He came from a very Inspirational-Book-Lovin' kind of people. I actually, literally, ripped a copy of some horrendous Dr. Laura tome that his batshit-insane mother gave me into itty, bitty pieces after we broke up. "DIY right-wing confetti!") Thus, my introduction to the wonderful world of work-related booktopia that dominates the NYT bestseller list and puts money in Penelope Trunk's pockets. *shiver*

The parachute book, though, is actually pretty good. And it can be particularly useful for the ever-increasing legion of performers who decide to give up the dream of playing the tuba/doing stand up comedy/singing rockabilly blues for a a living and hunting down a brand spankin' new career path. In other words, when you find yourself curled up in a ball on your bedroom floor, sobbing hysterically about that dreadful audition, and screaming, "What am I going to do NOW?!?!", rather than crawling into the liquor cabinet for an 8-day bender, you'd be better served staggering over to Borders and picking up a copy of What Color is Your Parachute?, and fast.

I found a thread about this very subject on the New Forum for Classical Singers, and you can find it yourself in the Main Forum. The thread is titled, "Deciding to give up... needing advice about jobs", and it's a good read, even if you're a little more Rush Hour Two and not so much Rodelinda in your performance pursuits.

Between books like Parachute, and the myriad of supportive forums and bulletin boards sprinkled throughout the internets, there are many resources for defeated performers looking to dive headfirst into permanent day job-dom. And while the thought of abandoning a career in music/acting/magic is an extremely painful one, it's something that is popping into the brains of budding performers more and more these days. (A great friend just bought tickets to and from the final round of a national competition this week. And, after making that four-figure purchase, she promptly went out and got a second job. No joke.) But after reading a book or two, or perusing boards like NFCS, at least you can come away with some sense of togetherness. You're not the only one out there weighing day jobs, audition fees, and the price of milk, Baby! It may be miserable and difficult, but you're not alone.

And I'm right there with you. It's a decision I've only recently come to grips with myself. But, more on that later this week.

**I only designate this particular ex-boyfriend as an idiot because, A) he actually, literally, was dumb as a box of broken light bulbs, and B) he's doing really, really well in his career as a professional musician, so I figure he can take it.

Que Triste

The artistic community suffered a great loss this past week in the passing of two very gifted musicians, Ralph Wells and Jason Ogan.

I've had the pleasure of performing with both men; in a 2001 Magic Flute production with Jason, and this past fall in a series of L'Oracolo concert performances with Ralph. Lovely people with boundless talent, both of them.

My sincerest condolences, and most heartfelt sympathies, go out to their loved ones.

Freak Show

Most people consider day jobs to be something that you do before you hit your big break. You flip burgers until you land a sweet recurring role on Gossip Girls, you stock shelves at Crate and Barrel until nabbing a record deal. But what happens when that gig doesn't pay the bills? Is it back to day jobsville?

Maybe. I stumbled across this article a few days ago. Full disclosure: I know this guy, Jason. I went to college with him at Portland State University, and knew him very vaguely when he later went on to New York to get his performance degree. And while I'll reserve all personal feelings about him for the sake of civility, let the record show that he and I really. Don't. Like. Each. Other.

The article is interesting, though, because it discloses this professional symphony musician's salary. After years and years of conservatory study, and having finally scored a respectable position in his chosen field that allows him to make money and do what he loves, Jason takes home approximately $17,000 a year. Without health insurance.

To put that figure into perspective, take a look at this listing of the lowest paying jobs out there. As it stands, Jason makes less doing the job that he trained, studied, and practiced for than a shampooer at a hair salon ($17,050), a ticket taker at a movie theater ($17,500), or a carnie ($17,530). Yeah, that's right. A CARNIE. Like, the creepy toothless dude who operates the Tilt-a-Whirl at the state fair. That guy makes more than a classically-trained symphony musician. Though, to be fair, there is such a thing as Carnie College

*faint*

Jason boosts his symphony salary with an additional $10,000 annually by teaching a small studio of students and playing little gigs here and there. His wife, however, fares much better in the dollars department, though her paycheck appears to come from equal parts musicianship and day job. (I know her from PSU, too. She's really nice.) She works 50 hours a week and makes $35,000 by teaching private music lessons and a part-time position at a music store. That's just below the national average of $39,190. Mind you, she's got a music degree, too, and is a talented trumpet player with many performance credentials.

Together, these two musical lovebirds pull down $62,000 a year. That's roughly what an autopsy technician makes, or a registered nurse. And their combined income is less than half that of a dentist or doctor. It's also only a fraction of the salary that symphony musicians make in big cities like Philadelphia, Boston, or New York, where those players get upwards of $100,000 a year.

Does Jason's freedom from a day job make his rather teensy salary worthwhile? He definitely wants a career as a symphony musician, but at what cost? "I'm trying to be a little single-minded about it. And maybe that's a mistake. I really want it," he says in the article.

While I admire his determination, and can surely see that he's reached some measure of success, I can't help but wonder if a little day job here or there might not be a bad idea.

Tempest (in) Teacup

(This is a true story. I've changed a name or two to protect the innocent, or at least make it so that a certain international opera star doesn't google themselves one day, stumble upon this post, and decide to sue me.)

Last winter, my day job went up in flames. Or, perhaps more accurately, went swirling down into a steaming cup of tea, where it flailed about miserably for approximately three more months before finally drowning. I wasn't fired; my boss and I came to a mutual agreement that since our arrangement wasn't really working for the company (too expensive+not enough results) or my soul (too stressful+murderous rages), I would be gently laid off.

There were myriad reasons for me to be unhappy in the position, but it was one particular incident that really pushed me over the edge. On a this fateful December day, you see, my day job and my opera career came head to head in a way that I don't think anyone could have expected, and the result of this basic-cable cage match wasn't pretty. After the 'incident', I found myself lying on my hotel bed in San Diego, staring out a window that, perhaps tellingly, gave me a glorious view of a brick wall and a dumpster. In that rapturous setting, I could do nothing but ask myself, God, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster one question: "Why?"

(Well, that and, "When the hell is my room service going to arrive?")

I spent most of November and December of last year shuttling to and from San Diego and Los Angeles, assisting in the opening of two new stores for my old company. When the San Diego store finally opened the day after Thanksgiving, after many delays, frustrations, and headaches, I thought my work there would be done and attention would be focused on the Los Angeles store, which was way behind schedule. To my great surprise, however, I was sent back to Anchorman-Land one last time for a quickie December trip that would see me helping the store's staff as they got into the swing of operating a brand-new business.

The work was standard and in no way difficult. Re-arrange this display of tea, scoot tins of coffee around on that shelf. Teach a salesperson how to use the register, tell customers about teapots. Snooze. Everything seemed routine, then, when one night as I worked the floor with the store's manager, 'Betty', and an hourly sales girl, 'Becky', a beautiful woman wearing leather pants and carrying armloads of Nordstrom bags wandered in to shop.

She was rich, that was easy to see. Sparkly jewelry, perfect makeup, and lovely (if slightly, I don't know, LEATHERLICIOUS) clothes. But she also looked vaguely familiar, and as I stood there watching her cruise the shelves, with Becky in tow chatting up a storm, I couldn't quite place the familiarity. Was it because I've spent half a lifetime standing in one fancy store or another, helping women just like that buy unnecessary and, oftentimes, hideous things at outlandish prices? Was it just a case of my recognizing a 'type'? Even so, something about the way she spoke, laughed, and waved a $59 glass teapot around like it was a laser pointer (to Becky's horror) was comfortable and common to me, and it went far beyond my day job.

Being a dope, I didn't put two and two together until it was too late.

The woman's attentions settled on the store's selection of blooming teas, gorgeous little hand-tied bundles of white tea and dried flowers that, when dropped into hot water, open up into lovely 'blooms' that also make quite a tasty brew. It's an easy product to sell, especially when you do a demonstration for the customer. Becky told the woman how lovely the little bundles of tea were when they bloomed, and, predictably, the woman asked if we could brew a pot for her. Late in the evening, a few hours from closing, and with a customer who was clearly going to drop big bucks if she liked what she saw, I shrugged. Sure, why not?

The woman wandered over to the bar, and I put some water in an electric kettle to boil. I chatted with Ms. Leatherpants, still trying to wrack my brain. How do I know this woman? Drop bundle into clear teapot. God, she's so familiar to me. Pour freshly-boiled water into teapot. Wow, those leather pants are really tight. Watch as tea blooms, admire pretty flowers, wait a few minutes, pour tea into teensy plastic cups. I wonder how old she is? She looks like she's had plastic surgery. Pick up teensy cup and blow on it, because I can feel through the plastic that the tea is scorching hot. Watch in mild amusement as the woman picks up her cup. Mild amusement turns to horror as she moves to take a sip. Open my mouth to tell her it's too hot. Too late, woman is yelling, throwing the tea at me, and storming away, calling me any number of names on her way to the register.

Amazingly, the woman made a few purchases. And as I stood rooted to the spot, too shocked to move, she screamed and yelled (and handed over her credit card to pay) and carried on to Betty, who was manning the counter. I was mortified; I've never had a customer burn themselves when tasting tea. I mean, it's TEA, not ice water. If you're not aware that the beverage is hot, I suggest you put your helmet back on and take a seat on the short bus. Regardless, this woman had burned her tongue, and she was letting Betty have it on my behalf.

"That IDIOT WOMAN over there BURNED MY TONGUE! I can't believe it, how STUPID is she? She should be FIRED! Do you know who I am?"

Freeze. She's going to tell us she's a celebrity. She's going to say she's Melanie Griffith. She's going to whip out her SAG card and tell us that we'll never work in this town again.

Nope. Worse than that.

"I'm a SINGER. I have a concert tonight. I. BURNED. MY. TONGUE!!!!"

In that instant, I just knew. Knew who she was, knew what kind of concert she'd be singing, knew that my soprano karma had just taken a 500 point hit. I sulked behind the bar until she stormed away, then I scurried up to the register and pulled her credit card slip out to be sure.

I had just maimed an international opera star, a soprano who sings at the Met on a regular basis and whose name is synonymous with the kind of repertoire that I'm trying to make my mark on. Feeling absolutely ill, I ran outside and called my husband, begging him to go online and check the schedules of the San Diego symphony, the opera. Was she really singing a gig that night? Had I just ruined her debut of some important role? Was I going to get sued?

She was singing that night, it was right there on the San Diego symphony calendar. Not a piece-of-cake sing, either, but a big, popular piece that was probably a sell-out. There she'd be, in one of those gorgeous gowns that are her signature, burned taste buds howling in her mouth as she spun that famously-beautiful tone. Which may, or may not, be quite so beautiful this time, thanks to that idiot woman with the lava tea.

Betty and Becky brushed it off, but I couldn't shake the gut-twisting misery. For days, I wandered around in a tremendous funk, wondering exactly what sort of universal meaning I was supposed to pull out of the situation. My day job had just taken a crowbar to the knees of my passion, opera. Was someone trying to tell me something? Was I supposed to quit singing in favor of retail? Or, was this karma's little way of letting me know that my day job was taking a toll on my opera career?

Ding, ding, ding. Either that's spot-on, or I watch way too much My Name is Earl.

When I left the job a few months later, I did so with a mind that had been made up since December. Call it fate, call it serendipity, or call me That Stupid Lady With The Hot Tea, but I knew that it was time to 'peace out' before I lost any semblance of peace, or any good way out. And though I'm sure the famous opera diva would probably rather not hear this (and she won't, not ever, because I'm never going to tell anyone who she is! Mwah!), since I caused her catastrophic physical injury, things have been looking up for me day job-wise. I've since found something that is just the PERFECT fit, and I couldn't have asked for a more peaceful outlook on my singing career than the one I have right now. (Both of which are things that I'll be telling you about in the future.)

The moral of the story? I guess you could pull any number of lessons from this. Listen to what the universe is telling you; if you're a guitarist in a band, and you accidentally spill hot fry grease all over Slash in a freak line cooking accident, then I think someone is telling you to leave the diner and find a new day job. Or, maybe I've just told this traumatic tale in the hopes that someone, somewhere, might be spared the indignity and sorrow that comes with a burned tongue. Look before you drink, people. Look before you drink.

Of course, she doesn't need one now...

J.K Rowling delivered the commencement address at Harvard University this year, and it is a stunning, beautiful, thought-provoking read.

Not only did the world's richest and most powerful (and one of my favorite) literary figure talk about failure, but she also detailed the life-changing day job that she worked in her early 20s.

"One of the greatest formative experiences of my life preceded Harry Potter, though it informed much of what I subsequently wrote in those books. This revelation came in the form of one of my earliest day jobs. Though I was sloping off to write stories during my lunch hours, I paid the rent in my early 20s by working in the research department at Amnesty International's headquarters in London."

Dare to be inspired, and take 15 minutes to read the speech.

The economy made me do it

The day job market is kind of terrifying these days. Payrolls are tumbling, unemployment rates are soaring, and if scary articles like this are to be believed, all this points to a recession that is well underway.

*blank stare*

I studied music in college, so I'm not even really sure what 'recession' means. I know it's bad, mostly because CNN, MSNBC, and my dad tell me so. While I can't make much sense of the reports and buzz words that fly around the evening news as of late, I can certainly feel the pressure that this dire economic situation is putting on the arts.

Rich people - money = poor people
Opera foundations - rich people = cancel the competition/young artist program/summer institute
Opera singers - competition/young artist program/summer institute = get a job full-time job at Cinnabon

So, what the hell does Hugh Laurie have to do with any of this?

The worse the economic situation gets, and the fewer creative opportunities artists have, the more horrible, embarrassing, I-hope-no-one-sees-me-doing-this kind of jobs we musicians and actors are going to have to take. And I don't just mean that in the day job sense, either. When a performing opportunity does roll our way, we're probably going to be more likely to snap it up, with little in the way of regard as to what the job actually entails. *singsong* There's a whole lot of pride-swallowing going on!

You're a struggling actor in LA trying to break onto the scene without compromising your integrity? Tough shit, buddy. I predict you'll play a starring role in poorly-done pimple cream commercial by year's end. But, don't take it too hard. Actors have been clambering up Star Mountain using embarrassing appearances as foot-holds for years.

Which brings us to Hugh Laurie. He's a big star on House, he's super-hot, bla bla bla. Did you also know that before he found fame, he was in a bunch of really, really horrible commercials? Take this one, a doofy Polaroid commercial from the 80's.

Does that make you feel better about taking that role in the Community Players production that only paid $150, and a Hometown Buffet gift certificate, now? Good.

It's Alive

Oh, hi! I didn't see you over there.

Gosh, it's been kind of a long time, hasn't it? A good six months, at least. It's so sweet of you to stick around.

What have I been up to? Sweet kitten in a ketchup tree, I certainly have been busy. Here's just a sampling of the kinds of thrilling adventures that have kept my life bumpin' and grindin' along like R. Kelly at a junior prom:

– Relationships exploded, including those between book agents, landlords, and me and my day job

– Large animals were purchased

– Creative goals and dreams were questioned (and stomped upon. And tossed away like yesterdays diapers. And then reborn, sometimes with fanfare and occasionally in black-hole-ish vacuums of silence)

– And blogs, namely this one, were ignored.

But I didn't have to tell you that last part.

The truth is, as you might imagine based on the above, the life of Erin Pullen, Day Job author extraordinaire, has been a touch tumultuous. I've made some decisions, and been the victim of the decisions of others. Such is life. Grow a pair and get on with it.

So, um, this is me getting on with it.

I quit posting because I was really frustrated with the direction that this blog, and more importantly, the book that is tied to this blog, was going in. I felt creatively dead, and even though many readers and friends and friends that are readers prodded me to get back on the horse, I really didn't see any reason to keep beating what, in my eyes, was a dead horse. (A dead horse with really great banner art.)

Then, a few months ago, after the dust settled with my day job and, well, much of my life, I took a little trip to California. I met a couple of people who have been featured prominently on Day Job, which was really neat. And as I was there, drinking the SoCal Kool Aid, the creative juices started bubbling. For the first time in months, I remembered why this blog (and this book) is so important not only to me in a creative sense, but to the artistic community that it celebrates.

I came back to Portland and hashed out a plan of attack. Re-vamp the book proposal. Get a new agent. And, most importantly, get the blog going much bigger and much better than ever before. I have plans, kids. Big, big plans.

So, welcome back to Day Job. Though, several of you never left! It means the world to me that, as I've started getting the machine going again, when I check the stats of the site I see that many, many people are still visiting. AND THE DARN THING HAS BEEN DEAD FOR SIX MONTHS! That just warms my cold little heart.

A few vital details for you to memorize, print out and tape to the dashboard of your car, tattoo on your knuckles:

– The site will update three times a week, on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays
– Day Job will STILL be featuring day jobbers doing what they do best. If you, or someone you love (or hate. I'm not picky.) wants to be featured, email me.
– Be on the lookout for a slick new layout. Day Job is playing with the big kids now! There will be surveys! And prizes! AND T-SHIRTS!!!
– Email your friends. Call your mom. Send a letter to that ex that you've been stalking. Help me boost readership. I promise, I'll make it worth your while.

So, again, thanks a million for sticking around long enough for me to get my stuff together.

Day Job. It's alive.