The best job I ever had was as a bookseller in the mall for a couple of years. That was a lot of fun. Minimum wage fun, but I lived with my Dad and only had to pay $30/week rent, so it wasn't a strain. I loved being around the books, rearranging the books, looking up books on the computer.

The customers were dumb, but they made for great stories. Like the half dozen guys who would "accidentally" rub themselves against my ass while I was finding a book for them. Or the crazy gangster kid with Timerlake hair who stood two feet away from a well-dressed woman, watching her intently, as she asked us to call security to deal with this freak who had been following her all over the mall. Or the many idiots who left their children in our store while they shopped all over the mall.

My manager let me yell at people if they were jerks. He was cool. He wasn't so cool when he made me get rid of my nosering, but he was only bowing to corporate pressure, so I forgave him.

We had a good group at that bookstore. A good-looking, smart, flirtatious, hard-drinking, party-loving group. I loved working with them and I loved hanging out with them after hours. We were all best friends for two years, until some of us had to grow up and get real jobs.

My first professional job, as executive assistant to the president of an accounting firm, was the worst job I ever endured. It was so bad.

I can't say that I wasn't warned, though. After the typing test, the interview basically consisted of them describing hateful things the president would do and say, and asking if I could handle it. I was willing to handle anything for a salary of $24,000, a huge sum to me, a girl who made less than $9,000 the previous year working two jobs.

It was a small 15-person firm, including two administrative people. The receptionist doubled as secretary for all the other accountants. My job was to babysit the president, handle his phone calls, keep clients and employees away from him, negotiate with his ex-wife, and make travel arrangements for his monthly Vegas vacations. When he started dating, I became part-time personal assistant to his girlfriends.

I quit after exactly 18 months, even though I didn't have another job lined up. The few friends I had made at the evil accounting firm cut me loose as soon as I shook off the role of Prim and Proper Executive Assistant and let them know who I really was. It was a learning experience. I learned exactly how much crap I was willing to put up with for money.