Most of my bright ideas for making money haven’t panned out, for one reason or another. Last fall, I got excited about a whole new career move. But the training would have cost me $3,000, which I would have had to pull from my retirement savings, plus the cost of some additional equipment for the home cubicle. That didn’t seem prudent even for leap- before-you-look me. (I’ve since found out—what the training organization won’t admit— that the odds of getting a job in that field are 1 in 400. I’m really glad I didn’t plunk down the cash for training.)

     The following spring, I was one of more than thirty people going for a part-time job, for which I was sort of qualified. It would have meant on-the-job training, but that was okay. I like starting new things. I made the first cut, and was among five people asked back for a second interview. They were hiring two people—and I was their third choice, waiting in the wings in case one of the chosen two didn’t work out. But they did. We’ve talked about my doing some pro bono work for the organization. It was my idea—I believe, as a friend says, that “things lead to things.” Besides, it would be fun. I like hanging out with the sort of people who work there. But it’s no money for now. I tell myself that the pay wasn’t very good, the hours worse, and the commute would have been horrific.

     Then I began to notice ads about donating plasma—$100.00 a month was possible, and a bonus for bringing the ad. Well, an extra hundred bucks every thirty days sounded great. Then I called and listened to the plasma center’s message. I stopped when it mentioned taking a detailed medical history. Nobody wants my plasma; it might be harboring fugitive cancer cells. I felt as if I were in one of those old cartoons where a bag of money takes wings and flaps out the window.

Well, this was 2010, so there was the Census—I wouldn’t go door-to-door, but I could sit in an office and collate materials or something. The only problem was that by the time I’d gotten around to taking the test, they’d already staffed those plummy jobs. It didn’t matter that I got a 97 on the test; they had no openings. I have a colleague at work who went door to door; her stories confirm that I’m not sorry I let that go by. In any case, the work ended when the Census did.

     I’d finally gotten desperate enough to consider adjunct teaching at the community college where I work. I burned out of teaching decades ago—it’s not so much the students as it is the effluvia of teaching: taking attendance, grading papers, keeping a grade book, managing classroom discipline, putting up with bake sales and magazine sales that inevitably cut into teaching. So I looked into it, and was promptly checked—I have two master’s degrees, neither of them in English. The state in which I live has a rule: to teach at the college level, one must have at least a master’s degree in the subject. So even though I’ve made my living (more or less) from writing for a decade, I’m not deemed qualified to teach a basic composition class.

     Well, I have a degree in library science. I could teach for an online tech college that offers an associate’s degree in the field. Except that when I talked to a woman already teaching there, she told me that it was great if I was doing it for fun, as she is—she has a full-time job and a husband, who presumably also has an income—but not for money. My idea of fun doesn’t include mastering the techniques of distance teaching for very little money. And the college wasn’t hiring just then.

My second degree is in theological studies—not really a huge field, unless you’re ordained, which I wasn’t called to be. Good news for parishioners everywhere.

     There is also the fact that adjunct teachers—especially in this economy—are a dime a dozen. Colleges and universities can, and do, exploit this desperate work pool.

     So I have a part-time job without bennies of any sort, plus whatever freelance projects I can manage, two at a time when I can get them. I was just reading an account of a woman going for a third part-time job, because the two she had didn’t pay well. I thought that was horrible; then I realized that, facing retirement in a few years and less marketable because of my age, I’m doing a version of that myself, with less energy, less enthusiasm, and plenty of competition.