I've been reading Barbara Ehrenreich's "Nickled and Dimed," lately, or should I say, re-reading it. For those working in low-wage jobs, there's really nothing new. It's a very interesting read, and I daresay the low-wage workforce would get a kick out of a successful Baby Boomer, with a cushy, somewhat high-profile job trying to make her way in low-paying, exhausting, stressful and for the most part, thankless positions.

I sort of feel like Ehrenreich right now. Except I am not a Baby Boomer, nor have I ever had a cushy, somewhat high-profile, good-paying job. I am a real-life low-wage worker, although I never dreamed I'd end up this way. No, this wasn't supposed to happen to me. After all, I have a college degree. My father was the one who wanted me to go to college; my mother wasn't so hell-bent on the idea, but both agreed they wanted me to have a skill that would earn me more than minimum wage. Little did they (and I) realize that Corporate America would be outsourcing jobs to foreigners happy to be getting a buck an hour, or less, working for an American company. Why pay U.S. workers a living wage, when you have people willing to work for less than half that, less than half a world away?

So here I am, living the same experiment that Ehrenreich experienced a few years ago, while writing this book. Her circumstances and mine are a bit different; her main problem was finding a place to live; I'm extremely lucky not to have that problem. I have plenty of reliable transportation available to get me to work, I have a degree and skills, so it's not like I am especially seeking out low-wage jobs, but in this economy, that's pretty much all that's left. I've applied at seven temporary agencies, and numerous jobs I've seen advertised in the paper, and I've inquired at just about every place with signs up for Christmas help. Deep in my heart, I don't want to run a cash register, or guide people through choices of merchandise, or ring up cigarettes, or work fast food again, but neither does anyone in Fort Wayne want someone who is a pretty decent writer, who can type 60 words a minute, who has a good phone personality, and worries about doing a good job the way I do. My brother and sister-in-law tell me not to "sell myself short," but unlike the delusional Baby Boomers that they are, I'd rather have a honest buck coming into the house than sit around waiting for the dream job. Like I said, I don't WANT to run a register, or deliver papers or assemble tacos, but I don't have the luxury of living off a spouse with a well-paying job until the opportunity of a lifetime comes around. I'm trying my best not to be a "job snob." My brother and sister-in-law fall into this category. They won't accept a position that pays "only" $28,000 a year, but they feel perfectly fine encouraging me to apply at Goodwill, where the pay is $7.25 an hour. It's okay for me to be poor, because I don't have a mortgage, or kids to put through college. I don't WANT to be poor, and I shouldn't HAVE to be poor, because I have a college education, which, studies have shown, will help me earn more money than someone who merely has a high school diploma. I'm still waiting for that theory to play out. Until then, I'm applying for anything that I think I can handle, and places where I stand a very small chance of being killed on the job.

I apply at my favorite discount retailer, and at a mid-level department store that I don't hate, but admittedly, I don't shop there regularly either. Both have computer-generated applications, which also include a thinly-veiled "personality test," presumably to weed out people who would not make good sales associates. I flunk both of them, and I am not called for an interview, not even for a stocking position, something I had hoped for. At one of the city's nicer department stores, I fill out an application, and tell the personnel manager that I will be taking a trip, but would be willing to work when I got back. A couple days after my return, I pop in, and miracle of miracles, I am hired. Bear in mind this store had an old-fashioned paper application, and no personality test to speak of. I also gained a rapport with the personnel manager, who had lived and worked in the country I had recently returned from. I think our pleasant conversation was the clincher in terms of me getting the job, it certainly wasn't my selling ability, because I didn't have any, at the time.

So I wind up in women's fragrances, which at this time of year, should be a snap, sales-wise. I train on a Friday and get thrown into the fray on Saturday, just a couple weeks before Christmas. I get a one-percent commission, and I'm told it's easy to make an extra $1.50 an hour. That's nice to know, because my base salary per hour is $6.50, which is the lowest per-hour wage I've made in almost seven years.

Ours is a diverse mix of sales staff. Immediately, I recognize someone from the past, and she recognizes me. But where from, we aren't sure. She may have been an orthodontic assistant from when I had my braces the first time around. We have young, and not so young, native born Americans and someone, a tall, slender woman, with a Russian accent. Somehow, someone with an accent selling perfume seems more legitimate. We have young women who look as if they've stepped out of a "Friends" episode, one in particular looks like Rachel -- or is it Phoebe? We have someone obviously middle-aged, not glamourous at all, but because she looks so motherly, I trust her more than the other women to be the most helpful and not to steer me wrong. There is an African-American woman who was in my training class who will be working in my department, and it's nice to have a familiar face to commiserate about difficult customers, puzzling aspects of our job, and the current specials we have going on in the department. During the late end of a slow evening, she tells me she is a grandmother, shocking me because there is no sign of gray in her hair, and I thought she was about 28 or so. We also discuss men and how they've done us wrong, jobs we've had and my current goal to pay off my bills and leave town. She is surprised at my determined declaration of not wanting a husband or children. I explain why. She tells me of her daughter being molested, and later running into the molester at a nearby grocery store; he works there.

The perfume area itself doesn't get the air circulation other parts of the store do, and it can be both warm and fragrant within the few hundred square feet of high-priced scents. I show up for my first day, an eight-hour shift on Saturday during peak shopping hours, in a wine-colored shirt and coordinated patterned corduroys. No one told me, until I showed up for work, that the women's fragrances dress code was black or white tops, and black slacks. I don a red apron, which clashes with my outfit, and set about stalking people, asking them if they've been helped, or if they need assistance finding something, or how they are today. There are three different staff titles in our department today. There are vendor representatives, which I dub the "perfume wranglers." They are familiar with a certain designer or product line, and hand out knife-shaped pieces of cardboard labeled with whatever fragrance the paper has been sprayed with. There are the ringers, whose job it is to ring up the merchandise. And there are the sales staff, which I am a member of. I am to get credit for helping people find whatever it is they are looking for. The first day, I sell $704 worth of merchandise, which is almost $100 worth of product an hour. I feel pleased with myself, especially since I don't fancy myself a saleswoman. My second night out, I only sell $566 worth or product. I am elated when a gentleman buys three gift sets, which came to $193. I helped him so I got credit for the sale. I only work a four-hour shift that night, so with that sale, I'm hoping to surpass my Saturday sales. Alas, it slows down in the department, and myself and one of my fellow trainees get to clean the shelving which features designers with higher-end products. My fellow trainee (let's call her Linnea) stops at the cash register to see how much she's sold tonight. Her total so far is $612, which she's disappointed with. I don't say anything about my $566 total, which ends up being the final number for the night, thanks to cleaning duty. I had been pretty proud of that, up until Linnea mentioned what she sold.

The proudest point of the evening was when I had successfully helped a gentleman choose his gift sets by giving him samples, showing him what free gifts he'd get with his purchases and including the little poufy pink feather box trim, which is something we weren't supposed to do, but I figured anyone blowing nearly $200 on perfume should pretty much get whatever the hell he wanted. The low point of the evening (besides the cleaning) was the lady with the accent who was my first sale of the night. I had a hard time understanding that she wanted to know where the Issey Miyake scents were. Once I figured that out, she dithered for a while, and selected her merchandise. She wanted to pay with her store credit card, so briefly forgetting the sequence for entering the credit card information in relation to sales, she got impatient with me, calling me "honey" in a demeaning way, and hinting if it was my second day (I had disclosed that information to her) I should probably find someone who knew how to ring up the sale, since I'd scanned her card three times and she didn't have much time. I assured her the sale was going through properly, and had her sign the receipt. She then demanded some samples, and I merely turned around, bent down and grabbed one of each in the plastic bin kept under the counter. She imperiously took her bag and left, and I had just remembered I'd forgotten to deactivate the security tag attached to each item in fragrance. If the tag doesn't get deactivated, there is a good possibility an alarm will go off when the customer exits the store. We were told in training it was very important to deactivate the merchandise. It was embarrassing to the customer when that happened.

I must say it was a little, well, disheartening to be treated in such a dismissive way by Mrs. Accent. I tell people I'm new so they don't wonder why I'm having trouble with the register, or ask questions that the sales staff haven't given me the answers to. The woman in personnel who hired me warmed that women's fragrances can be a little cutthroat; I wonder what it must seem like to the customer, having women in black swooping down on them every few minutes asking if they are finding everything all right. The vast majority of people I approached were "just looking," and I myself don't like to be cruised when I'm checking out scents. Boxed gift sets are big this time of year, and they do offer a good deal, but quite a few customers wanted items that the gift sets didn't offer. They wanted the large perfume spray and the shower gel, not the lotion and the perfume spray. Customers would ask for gift packs they saw last year, or perfume that was only a limited edition that sold out months ago, never to return. We could probably increase sales if we had the power to make gift sets according to our customer's wants. Some wanted only to buy the multiple perfume sampler sets that were only available for purchase if you bought an extra $40 of that manufacturer's product.

And then there are the free gifts available with certain gift sets. It got confusing; with 150 scents to choose from, it was hard to know who got what with which purchase. For all the technological wonders of our cash registers, which were more like computers, a "free gift" notice didn't pop up on the computer. You had to push a couple buttons to get that information, which to me was just more stuff to remember. Getting accurate information on products was difficult too. On my second day, there were a bunch of boxes with x's on the bottom sitting on a cart near the register. Apparently the manufacturer had been sued for copyright infringement, and we were to offer the customer a choice of either a candle or the perfume spray, with any purchase from that manufacturer. Later on that evening, it was only the candle to be given away. When I said earlier it was two options instead of one, I got stares from two of the younger women. On my walk out to the parking lot, I worried that I had exited from the wrong entrance; we have a designated entrance we are supposed to use whether or not we are on the clock. I worried I'd be fired for walking out a door a few feet from the designated door; I envisioned myself telling a prospective employer why I'd been fired from this store: "You see, it was at the end of my shift, and late, and I totally forgot about leaving the store by the right entrance." I also resolved to carry a notebook, or at least some scrap paper to write down what people tell me about certain products, so when the rules change in mid-shift, I can whip out my notes and say, "that's not what you told me earlier."

I know my back won't hold out for this type of work on a 40-hour a week basis. Even if I lost the amount of weight I want to lose, I doubt it would make much difference to my back. And when exhaustion takes over, it's hard to smile, let alone push people toward the gift sets. I would rather have just the perfume, never mind the shower gel or lotion, even though it's a better buy to get the gift sets. This preference may handicap me, but this is a seasonal position only. If I get through this, I can claim that yes, I did do sales, if only for a month. However, my personal goals may differ from that of the company. For a non-sales personality such as mine, if I can average $100 worth of product per hour, I'd be happy with that; however in consumer-mad America, too much is never enough, and your best is never quite good enough.

Christmas was over, that much was apparent from the lack of hours I was getting. The Sunday after Christmas, I was put in china, and I thought it was hideous that I was dusting around place settings going for $172. It was predictably slow; I spent part of the time chatting with a woman who was retired, but had everything going for her financially. The 15 or so hours a week she worked was enough to give her something to do, as well as a discount on whatever she bought. Apparently it was okay to buy stuff while on the clock; I saw employees do it frequently, and I also saw them put their friend's purchases on their credit cards, so their friends would get the discount.

New Year's Day, I dress in appropriate clothing for women's fragrances. I'm scheduled for eight hours, which I'm not happy with. Shortly after I clock in, I am summoned to housewares. This turns out to be one of the worst places for me to work, because I know nothing about pots, pans, Fiestaware or Pfalzgraf. The realization about how devastating the recent Tsunami was is weighing on my mind, and how people can come in wanting replacements for their plates or if a particular Calphalon item is on sale, is beyond me. I do the best I can, of course. One of my co-workers is also a college graduate, who had to move back in with her parents. Her age is impossible to guess; and the clothing she is wearing is rather dreary. Since I've dressed for perfume sales, I stand out in sharp relief in my black pull-over shirt and bell-bottom hip-huggers and black boots, which will nearly kill my feet. Every department seems to have a "problem person" and today instead of Rachel from "Friends" we have a dowdy, gruff woman who has been there more than 15 years. She is stunningly unsympathetic if I have a question about something; I bring back a nearly empty lunch sack to save me a trip back to the breakroom when I leave that day, and immediately takes the sack out of the compartment I stow it in, saying food of any kind is not allowed at the sales terminals.

I wonder if that goes for water. I've seen water bottles sitting in the compartments designated for the trash cans; it strikes me as rather bizarre that such a nice department store skimps on places for its employees to hang their coats. Jackets and purses were stuffed in the same compartments the trash cans sit in. I realize that food and drink isn't allowed at the terminals, but what if a patron asks us to throw something away and it turns out to be sticky or wet? I'm a slob myself, but at home, I certainly don't hang or stuff my coats near my trash cans. When I started, I was shown a place to hang my coat, it was in one of the stock rooms, but soon realized I was wasting a lot of time going there to put my coat away. And I was at the mercy of men's fragrances; that was where the key was kept. If someone was there, and the key was at the register, no problem. But if someone had the key, I'd have to hope they were in the stockroom.

During my time there, I also worked in the men's department and moderate sportswear, which would better be defined as my mother might have said, as "the bullet-proof polyester boutique."

My third to last day there, I was scheduled for three hours on a day when a sleet storm hit the area. Despite the weather, I drove around in the middle of nowhere looking for a company holding a job fair, or rather, job "carnival." Amazingly, I was able to get there, fill out paperwork, get interviewed and get to my job on time. I went to human resources to see where they wanted me to work that night. As I stood in the doorway of the office belonging to the manager on duty, she looked at me and said, "what are you doing here?" "Um, well, I was scheduled to work tonight," I said. Apparently, 21 of my co-workers weren't so dedicated to their jobs; they all called and said they weren't coming in. The weather really didn't faze me; I consider it a challenge to drive on ice. Besides, I was well-trained by the expectations of the last job I had. If you called in, even if you were spewing intestinal garbage from both ends of your body, it was considered an unexcused absence, meaning it wasn't planned for in advance. There, you could get off work, but only if you planned for it ahead of time. If you just decided to call in sick, it was considered an "incident." And it would go in your permanent file. That job lowered my career self-esteem to the point where I no longer expect any perks on the job. Vomiting? Car accident? Bad weather? Those are no excuses for not coming in to work.

My final day was in china, doing inventory. We had scanners to scan stickers stuck on shelves, tables or wherever merchandise happened to be setting. It was hard to figure out how many pieces were on a shelf. Were four pieces of stemware actually four pieces of stemware, or just one set? I got to go in at 5:45 a.m. for this adventure, and only after asking if there were any hours available. Silly me. But at least I got to work on time; there weren't any annoying customers to deal with. The store was fairly quiet, and this made the Muzak seem even louder. It was sort of ironic, since starting to work at the store, I'd notice the music was from the 1980s, right around the time I was in school. Instead of putting me in a good mood, it did just the opposite -- here I was, in a store that I hadn't shopped in as a teenager because I didn't have the money, and still didn't do much shopping in because my income didn't really justify it. Except for several extra pounds, some gray hair, a college degree and a sneaking suspicion my life was a joke everyone on the outside was laughing at except for me, nothing had changed. I was still just as poor, vulnerable, naive and stupid as I was in high school. Everyone else grew up, got married, got careers, except me. Thankfully, our section was done a little after 10 a.m., and after checking with someone who was recording our inventory data, I was free to go. I came home and went back to bed. I eventually got up and got something to eat, but I really needed that nap. And that was the last day I worked at the store. Time to search for another job. Which for those of you who've done it, you're well aware of how stressful it is. For me, it would be rather humiliating. But that's another story.

Is it time to go HOME?