It Was a Good Run. Until I Had to Google What a CV Is

"Everything always worked out for me"—until I had to reenter the job market.

“The Job Market is a Zoo,” Stepdad Collages 2025

It was spring 2022. Masks were still mostly in effect at Staples Center (ugh, fiiine, Crypto.com Arena), so I was shocked when I was stopped with half my face covered while high-tailing it out of the bathroom with a, “I’m sorry, are you Marissa Ross?”

It turned out to be the Vice President of Marketing for the Clippers. She was a big fan of my book, and recognized my sweats and PG 3 Nikes from my Instagram Story. She gave me her card and said to give her a call, because she wanted to hire me. I was equally elated and bewildered, and reentered the arena like the PA system just summoned me to center court for winning a contest I didn’t remember entering.

“Everything always just works out for you, doesn’t it?” my soon-to-be-legally-ex-husband sneered when I got back to my seat, his eyes as narrow and sharp as a new boning knife.

It was the first time he ever showed his resentment; there isn’t much point in having restraint when your marriage is already over. He wanted to cut me and he did— he was the only person in the world who bore witness to how hard I’d worked to get to where I was despite not having anything at all. I doubt he ever thought it would scar me, but it did.

It’s always somewhere in my mind. Usually it’s only a whisper in the distance. Occasionally it’s my own voice with a smirk. Although these days, I hear it crisp and cold, as if he was saying it to me for the first time.

Because while he wasn’t right,
he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Things did always seem to work out for me—
just not in the ways they were supposed to.

Working for free at Hello Giggles got me an interview with Mindy Kaling herself. My friend brought his friend to the screening of my web series, who went home and showed her roommate—a junior agent at UTA who ended up signing me. After leaving hundreds of dollars of Wildfox shirts in a cart I’d never check out, I met the women who founded it because one of them was dating my ex-husband’s weed dealer; a few years later, they asked if I wanted to style their photo shoots. New York Magazine found my wine blog, and suddenly I had a literary agent and was writing a book. The Editor-in-Chief of Bon Appétit was scheduled to be on Leandra Cohen’s podcast, so he checked out Man Repeller—the top article was one I’d written about wine. He read it, and shortly after, offered me a job.

But not everything. Not always.

Not the eight comedy staffing jobs I interviewed for. Not the literal thirty-something television shows I pitched—including the one that made it to pre-production before getting canned, or the time CNN+ gave my hosting gig to someone else. Not the four straight-to-producer auditions for Judd Apatow projects that I assume went to Aubrey Plaza. Not the new food & beverage magazine I spent six months building decks for.

And after three months of meetings and brokering eight thousand personalized canned ciders for season ticket holders, the VP left without even telling me—so no, not even the gig with the Clippers.

But to this day, I’ve mostly gotten by just by being in the right place at the right time. And while yes, I’ve been very lucky, most of it hasn’t been luck—it’s been opportunity meeting preparation. What can I say? I’m an opportunist. After hustling in a dozen different directions, I’m always prepared.

Prepared for everything—
except getting a job
like a normal fucking person.

I’m so bad at it.

I’m bad at résumés. Or CVs? Is that what they’re called now? Whatever. I’m bad at them. I’m bad at listing my skills, I’m bad at describing my jobs, I’m somehow even bad at writing about myself when that’s pretty much all I fucking do. I think I’m great at cover letters, but I’m actually bad at those too—considering the last one I sent said I’d be “using the same skills I used to change the world of wine from a circle jerk of classist gatekeepers to a fashionable community of enthusiastic supporters.” (The new Clippers VP who read it apparently was not amused.)

I can’t even ask motherfuckers I know for favors. So of course I’m bad at cold emails. Like, so bad it takes me a full week to write one—and even longer to get the nerve to actually send it.

This is a whole skillset I do not have, because for nearly twenty years I’ve been operating off my own: scrappy, sharp, hardworking, and just charming enough to talk my way in (or out) of nearly anything. Oh, and most importantly, I’m a damn good writer.

But the world has changed.

Side gigs I used to catch like fish in a barrel are now managed by AI.

The media connections I built over the years are nearly extinct: one-third got canceled, one-third got absorbed into corporate jobs, and the last third is a grab bag of wildly successful influencers, occasional contributors that have retreated into generational wealth, a few top Substackers, and people who got beamed up by marital bliss, never to be seen again (until the obligatory pregnancy post).

And our country is a barely operational, gas-leaking carnival of late-stage capitalism—run by a senile clown with a flamethrower, gifted to him by the weapons-dealing carnie so he’d stop crying after failing to knock down the Middle East with a few baseballs.

But my skillset is…
how should I say this…

NOT FUCKING WORKING
IN TODAY’S JOB LANDSCAPE.

HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO GET A JOB IF I’M IMMEDIATELY THROWN OUT OF THE APPLICATION PROCESS FOR NOT HAVING A COLLEGE DEGREE IN AN ENTIRELY UNRELATED FIELD?! I USED TO BE ABLE TO TALK MY WAY OUT OF THAT PART!

MAKE A FEW JOKES ABOUT USELESS COMMUNICATIONS DEGREES—HAHA WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN LOL—NO, REALLY, WHAT THE FUCK IS A COMMUNICATIONS DEGREE BESIDES WHAT EVERYONE I WENT TO HIGH SCHOOL WITH GOT WHEN THEY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO?!

And the only surprising thing about the slow death of the full-time writer is how long it’s taken me to accept it—even as I’ve been draining my savings just to tread water in a job market that wants me to be a globally optimized bot disguised as a brand.

People haven’t wanted to pay writers for a while. For example: despite building a new audience for the magazine, I never got a raise at Bon Appétit—they just took away my salary. Every year started with a new contract: lower pay, same workload, same exclusivity. I stayed as long as I did because the title of “wine editor” was the most valuable thing I ever earned (even if a loud constituency didn’t believe I earned it, and to which I say, respectfully: go fuck yourselves).

I knew it had become nearly impossible to be a full-time writer without becoming the sole proprietor of your own content farm—churning out soul-killing clickbait just to maybe make rent.

But I really thought I could do it. That even though I’d taken time off for my mental health, for my divorce, for being the housewife a man asked me to be, I could come back. That somehow, in a time where everyone is a writer because they learned how to construct sentences in elementary school and have a WiFi connection, I could still stand out. That all the work I’d done would still speak for me.

Because I’m scrappy and sharp.
Because I’m charming.
Because I’m a fucking good writer.

Because
everything has always just worked out.

Except for when it hasn’t.
And no. It’s not.

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Yesterday, I applied to be
the senior editor of
some sort of publication
for the Los Angeles Zoo.

I’m not particularly a fan of animals in captivity, but I’m also not particularly a fan of working in offices. Offices themselves are zoos— all species of annoying humans enclosed together, separated only by cubicle walls that offer no real security and do not deter the Colin Robinsons of the world from hovering, staring, draining your will to live.

Unless it’s an open floor plan, then it’s like the San Diego Wild Animal Park but with micromanagers and the occasional office dog.

I assume there will be an office at the zoo.
But at least there will be actual animals.

I mean, if they look past the fact I don’t have a degree, and don’t toss my résumé because I was afraid to lie on a federal form about disabilities (anxiety was listed as a disability!), I think I’ve got a chance. I will admit, my chances would probably be higher if there’d been a place for additional comments.

I could’ve told them that I admire big cats. I love otters because they have emotional support rocks and crack open oysters on their stomachs like tiny wet chefs. Or how Timon is one of the best Disney supporting stars of all time. And don’t even get me started on how much I relate to swans who’d rather drown than be seen struggling.

That I had Girl Scout sleepovers in the penguin exhibit and the shark tunnel at SeaWorld. That I’ve had a monkey throw shit on me, an iguana fall on my head in Aruba, and that I was once part of a stage show at Disney’s Animal Kingdom where they made me close my eyes—then draped a snake seven times larger than my ten-year-old body over me. (I wouldn’t tell them I cried during the last three. But I did.)

Anyway, I hope I get it. Or at least get an interview—so I can make jokes about communications degrees. Unless they have one. In which case, I’ll pivot to psychology.

And you know what? I should get it. I’d be great at it. And if I don’t? No worries. There’s got to be other zoos out there with unspecified publications that need editors.

Because
everything is going to work out.
It always does.

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All collages © Marissa A. Ross. Do not reproduce without permission.

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