It was the summer before my senior year and I knew I needed cash but didn't want work to consume my last summer of freedom.

So I picked up the Pennysaver and one ad leapt out. It said "EASY MONEY," and below that, "Join the Elite Cleaning Service." I made the call. And by the time I hung up the phone, I was convinced I'd found the perfect summer job.

This was the plan: Two days a week I would clean the homes of a few clients. I had no boss and would walk away at the end of each day with cash in my hand. The only qualification was access to a car. Tuesdays and Thursdays, my brother's chick-mobile, a midnight blue Nissan 260 ZX, was all mine. The agency took a cut, but I would still be making like 20 to 30 bucks an hour. Ka-ching!

But then came my first day of work. For hours upon hours, I washed dried scum off dishes. I removed hair clumps from bathroom drains. I even scrubbed toilets. I came to loathe my job fast that day. Why hadn't it ever occured to me that I hated cleaning? And worse, it wasn't my own mess I was cleaning up. These people were strangers, and I was handling their dirty towels and underwear. Gross.

At the end of the day, I returned to the agency, ready to grab my money and never look back. But when the secretary handed me a wad of tens and twenties, my mind suddenly changed...