Not only is the job market in northeast Indiana horrible, if you are lucky enough to find a job fair in your area, you get to put up with the humiliation of applying for a job. It's not like it used to be, folks. In the old days, one would walk into a business establishment and ask for an application. Perhaps they'd be directed to the human resources department, or if the place was really small, you'd be asking the owner face to face if any positions were available.

Not anymore. Recently I've applied by email, snail mail and by a computer set up to take my application and interview me at the same time. In "Doing the Job at Hand," I mentioned that I was turned down by a discount retailer and a mid-level department store before one of the nicer department stores hired me. Why I wasn't fit to sell low-end stuff is beyond me, as I'm poor and have an eye for tackiness. I suspected it was because I clicked with one of the personnel employees, who thankfully was not a computer.

But I'm still looking for "opportunities," as my brother calls them. I'm here to tell you there are some lousy "opportunities" out there. My brother is a "job snob," that is, someone who thinks because he has a college degree and years of experience in a certain field that he deserves a job that pays upwards of $40,000 a year and offers every single benefit you can think of. But I, his sister, am not deserving of the same type of job. I'm instructed not to "sell myself short," but the bottom line is, if you have a degree you are doubly cursed. You are way over qualified for a bunch of positions, which makes it hard to land even a "podunk" (my friend's description, not mine) job, and it's assumed that you wouldn't want the position anyway, because you, by evidence of your college degree, aspire to higher things besides running a register. I don't want to be stationed at the French fryer either, but the bills have to be paid, and my creditors don't care where the money comes from, as long as they get their share.

So I go to yet another job fair. It is held on one of the nastiest January days I can remember; it's a sleet storm out there. I worry I won't be able to get to my job on time, but I manage. The job fair is out in the middle of the country, I finally find the place and start one of the strangest job experiences of my life.

The job fair is actually a job "carnival," complete with tickets showing what we are in for. "concessions" are first; we get free popcorn but nothing to wash it down with. Next up is the "side show," where we get to see a PowerPoint presentation on what it's like working for the company and what they expect from us. Most places have a smoke-free workplace, but allow you to smoke outside. Not this place. If you want to smoke, you have to drive off the company premises to do so. I don't smoke myself, but I'm shocked at this fascist approach to keeping worker's lungs as pink as possible.

The "circus tent" is where we fill out the application. As I scribble out the information I have committed to memory because I've filled out so many applications, carnival-style music is playing. I find it amusing and appalling at the same time, because "The Stripper" is toot-tootling its theme from some invisible speaker. In a way, filling out an application is like stripping, so the music was entirely appropriate. The "funhouse" was the test, the standard application of math and punctuation and spelling. The "arcade" filled me with paranoia, as there were games set up that we had to play. We could choose bingo, or make a balloon animal, or color a picture. After winning a couple games of bingo, I was convinced I was being watched by employees to see why I was playing so much. I decided to move on and color a picture, just to show I was "flexible." Then I was called to center stage, for my interview, along with three other fellow applicants. After the interview, we got a "souvenir" of cotton candy, packaged in industrial-strength plastic.

Because I find inspiration everywhere, I pulled out a pen and started to jot down snippets of conversation while waiting for the "sideshow barker" to tell us what sort of employees his company was looking for. There were a couple of Wal-mart drop outs; one vowing, "I don't care how bad it gets, I ain't going back to Wal-mart." One woman in back of me told her companion she had bought a car on Friday, and lost her job on Tuesday. There's talk of who's working where and of job cuts and frustrations. Finally, the guy comes in and explains about working conditions at the company and what sort of employees they are looking for. You aren't allowed to have any bad days there, inclement weather is no excuse for not showing up. Complainers are "helped out" pretty quickly, and that phrase, of course, has dual meaning. I'm willing to bet you don't get counseling or a hug if your day is going bad. If you get helped at all, it's probably out the door.

I already know I'm not meant for this place, but out of curiosity, I stay for the entire show. I am thoroughly puzzled by the "arcade," where we are supposed to take part in "games." We had a choice of bingo, making a balloon animal (instructions were provided) or coloring a picture. By now, I'm mentally shaking my head at this attempt at a carnival-like atmosphere. Missing were the toothless ride operators, skanky skill game hosts and the fried dough. I win two games of bingo, choosing mini flashlights as my prizes. I decide to color to try and calm myself down. I was becoming paranoid that the employers, the 24-hour party people, were watching my every move to see what sort of games I chose to play and for how long. I wasn't a third of the way through my picture when I was called for an interview, along with three other potential employees. Six of us (four applicants, two employees) go into what looks like a customer service call room. The applicants are asked to interview each other, then spit back the information to the staff members. Our first question is what we liked about our last, or current job. The second question was what we found the most challenging. The first applicant who interviews me does a great job of screwing me over, by saying I was "reluctant to work with people," for my response to what I found challenging about my last job. I did a mental jaw drop when she said that. I specifically remember saying to her I worked retail in a department store, but that I hated working in housewares; I honestly didn't care about Fiestaware or what Calphalon skillets were on sale. I also said I rather enjoyed helping husbands and boyfriends pick out some nice fragrances for their significant others. It's this carelessness, this total disregard for getting stuff straight that is another depressing aspect of job searching. You may be the perfect employee on paper, exactly what they are looking for, but if personnel misplaces your application, you wind up being nobody. And if you call to inquire about your application, they can't find it, and you have to come in and fill out another one -- and hope they don't lose it. It's the employers who can make mistakes, the applicants must be perfect.

On our way out, we get the cotton candy. I use one of my keys to rip a hole in the bag, and munch on the way back to my seasonal job at the department store. The ice is so bad, 21 of my co-workers decide not to come in that day, but it's hardly a burden on the sales staff that did show up. There are hardly any customers anyway, and I spend most of my three-hour shift straightening clothes, folding shirts and talking to the woman I was sent to help. She's worked at the store longer than I've been alive. I realize I'm talking to a vanishing breed, the lifer. I expect to go through at least 20 more jobs before I quit working entirely.

I got a letter the next week from 24-Hour Party People. They rejected me. Just as well. The benefits they were offering, all the coffee I could drink (I don't drink coffee) birthday cake once a month, and five free t-shirts weren't worth driving 40 miles out of town on a daily basis for.

Be it ever so humble, there's no place like HOME