My last post really got me thinking about my employment history. Having gone from fast-paced, corporate America to a job where I use glue sticks, goes to show how varied my work background really is.

When I was 15 years old, I got my first job. Sure, there had been a paper route and babysitting, but this was a REAL job. Like with a paycheck.

It was a very glamorous work environment. So glamorous that I had to wear a hairnet. To make matters worse, I would often have to ride my bike to get there…looking a lot like this.

I worked at a local restaurant well-known for its cafeteria style food service. It was also notorious for having patrons who are very old.

The doors opened at 4:00 PM and there would already be people in line for dinner. I was a salad girl, so their first stop after picking up their tray and flatware was at my station.

For the next three hours, I had to practically yell at every person who slid their tray past me.

“Would you like Jello today? Or, maybe a carrot and raisin salad?”

“Eh?”

“WOULD YOU LIKE A SALAD?”

Patron turns to equally age-challenged acquaintance, “What’d she say?”

“She said she wants to know if you’ll sing a ballad.”

Patron exclaims, “OH! Pardon me boy, is that the Chatanooga Choo Choo…”

After battling with elderly people over things like whether their ambrosia had enough marshmallows, I would have to get down on my hands and knees and scrub out the refrigerators. After that, I got to wash dishes and clean mayonnaise off the decorative lettuce. I know, I know…you can clearly see the allure which drove me to such a coveted job.

Needless to say, after that summer I swore off food service for good.

Through college, I had odd jobs and slowly worked my way into the mortgage industry. Given the state of the real estate market, maybe I should’ve stuck with salads.

Tell me boys and girls, what was the worst job you have ever had?

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Yesterday I was at work, fingering through my latest project. I had a stack of 29 autobiographies which I was editing and alphabetizing, when my mind started to wander.

What? You didn’t know I work with writers? Well, I do. A whole second grade classroom full of them.

I was cutting out their pictures and using a glue stick to attach head-shots to a list of facts about each child. Facts detailing very personal information like their favorite color, or what they want to be when they grow up.

I couldn’t help thinking about how ten years ago I was working as an Operations Manager for a local corporation. I oversaw two departments and numerous people. I worked long hours, I was motivated, diligent, and career-driven. My job defined me. That was before I had kids.

Now I’m a teacher’s aide whose hours are 8:00-11:00 AM. I work with crayons, markers, and a lot of germs.

I took this job because it allows me to be home with my kids after school. Not to mention, my kindergartner still needs a little special attention, and the principal allows him to come to me for certain things. As a school and as an employer, they are more than accommodating.

If I had not bore children, who knows where I would’ve ended up career-wise. I know one thing for certain, we’d have a lot more money.

But, being able to stay home with my kids for nearly a decade and now work in the same building where they attend school…well, you can’t put a price on that. It’s a very fortunate situation in which to find myself.

So my briefcase doesn’t hold business cards or a Blackberry, and sometimes I can’t tell if the goo on my desk is from glue or some kid’s snot, and I’m definitely not breaking the bank, but I think I’m the richest woman in the world.

Maybe I should stop sniffing those markers.

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Two days ago, we attended our niece’s wedding in Virginia. The ceremony and reception were held at a beautiful and exclusive resort on the banks of the James River. I’m pretty sure they wanted to turn us away at the gate, because our Cadillac wasn’t fancy enough.

The bride and the guests were gorgeous, decked out in clothes so fabulous that the sunset paled in comparison. Following the ceremony, the wedding party had photographs taken while we were treated to scrumptious hors d’oeuvres in truly lovely surroundings.

After finding out I have a love for something called “mushroom cigars” and even more love for something called an “open bar”, it was time for the reception.

As we left the riverbank and stepped inside to the five-course, sit-down dinner, I grabbed my son’s hand and told my daughter to follow behind.

We entered on the far end of the hall and zig-zagged through the crowd, looking for the table number that matched our place card. I nodded politely and said, “Excuse me”, numerous times as the three of us wiggled around the room.

Little did I know that I should have been excusing my son’s behavior, not mine, because when we arrived at our table my daughter said, “Mom! Your son smacked the butt of every person we passed by!”

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