March 26, 2012

A Word From Your Helpful Career Guidance Counselor

What’s the difference between a writer and a pizza? A pizza can feed a family of four.

Thank you, I’m here all week. Remember to tip your waiter and try the veal. Seriously, tip your waiter. It might be me.

It’s not a news flash that my chosen profession is not exactly one of the most lucrative. To say “chosen profession” - is that really accurate? Isn’t it often our profession that chooses us? To paraphrase that old adage, when you do something you love, you’ll never work another day in your life.

Over the years, like most people, I’ve put much thought into turning many things that I love into a profession. Perhaps I can help you with your quest for professional bliss or at least eliminate some options that you’ve been considering.

Eating

Yep, I love to eat. We go back a long way, food and me. It’s kind of a love/hate relationship. I love to eat food and it hates to be killed and put on my plate. Fruits and veggies, fish, all sorts of farm animals - I’m not shy. I even ate a yard gnome once, but that was back in college, alcohol was involved, and I lost a bet. I still become frightened when I see Travelocity commercials.

(Side note: I just Googled “yard gnome commercial” because I couldn’t remember if the company was Travelocity and discovered there’s a yard gnome superstore out there. I had no idea there was such a demand for yard gnomes…and I’m not sure why.)

Alas, there are no true professions for eating - unless I choose to become a competitive eater. But there already is an uncharacteristically skinny eating champion out there. A Japanese gentleman, I believe. I’d Google his name, but I’m afraid I’ll come across a superstore dedicated to him.

Drinking Beer

Hops, barley, water - how can you not make a profession out of nature's liquid gold? I have a friend who’s tried. He’s fallen off many barstools in his day during his attempts, but has failed to earn a nickel. However, we can point out all of the high-end HD televisions around the bar that his dedication to his art has purchased. I’m waiting for a sandwich to be named after him. It won’t make him any money, but at least he’ll feel like he’s finally made the big time.

Watching Criminal Minds

I’m not sure if I should make this my profession or enroll in a 12-step program for it. I was introduced to this show very late in the game. It’s been around since 2005, but I just started watching late last year. (I also heard about something new called “color TV.” Have to give that a try sometime.) There’s a television network called ION that runs episodes almost daily. So, almost daily, I’m on the edge of my seat trying to delve into the minds of serial killers. Let me tell you, there are some sick SOBs out there--and I’m just talking about my buddies.

Arguing Sports

Now if this were a possible profession, I’d have a long list of friends who’d be standing in line to submit applications. My dad would surely come out of retirement to supplement his income, too.

It doesn’t make a difference what the sport is baseball, basketball, football, hockey, women’s lacrosse - even Chess Boxing. This is real; between boxing rounds, players each make chess moves. The winner is the player who’s first to checkmate or to knock the other guy on his arse. I tried it once and it wasn’t pretty­. When hit with a left hook, I coughed up a yard gnome.

Giving Wedgies to My Nephews

Oh, if there were only a profession for this one, I’d be set for life! I have six nephews that vary from college age to kindergarten. Throughout their years, they’ve all earned that magical experience from their uncle by being stinkers. One thing they never seemed to realize is a) Don’t do anything that merits a wedgie. And b) When you do something, be sure to stay out of arm’s reach for the next, oh, six months. Typically they’ve forgotten about their misdeeds within the first 10 minutes and wander by. Ah, sweet justice.

Well, I hope my career guidance helps you in your search and I wish you the best of luck. If all else fails, you could become a writer. 

I don’t get it.

There are some things that I just don’t get in life. Total head-scratchers.

Some of them, not all, are related to women. A guy not understanding women? Shocker, I know. But I learned long ago that I’m not alone. One of the great statements my father shared over a beer with me went something like this:

“I grew up with a mother and six sisters. I have a wife (as of this writing, of almost 51 years), three daughters, and four granddaughters. I still don’t understand women. So I just smile and nod my head.”

The sad part is I simply asked him if he wanted hot wings or potato skins. Poor guy.

But don’t think I’m going to simply regurgitate here the standard differences between men and women, Mars and Venus, the peeny woo-woo and the hoo-hah (if your children are in the room). A handful of things, off the top of my head, leave me with shoulders shrugged.

Ladies, what’s with the pouty pucker face in pictures? Is that supposed to be seductive or sexy? Yeah, I don’t know of a single guy who agrees with you. You look like a bee stung you in an unfortunate spot. Please stop. If it is because of a bee, try ice and Benadryl.

Sorry, ladies, but I have another one for you. Why do you take pictures of your feet? I don’t have a problem with feet. I don’t love or hate them. I actually find them quite handy for walking. I also don’t mind barefoot people, if you don’t have extra toes or look like you use a belt sander on your bunions—although the extra toe part might be interesting to see. I don’t even have a problem rubbing the feet of a woman I’m in a relationship with. But it seems that women on vacation love to take pictures of their feet with scenery in the background.

“These are my feet overlooking the vineyards of Napa. But these are my feet in Sonoma! Can you tell how much different they look? Me too! And check out my feet in Punta Cana!”

There’s nothing different about the feet. No special toenail polish. No recent pedicures. No fancy shoes. No new tattoos. No braided toe hair. (And if you have braided toe hair, you have bigger issues than taking pictures of your feet.)

That’s a beautiful sunset…without your feet. That powdery sand on the beach and crystal blue ocean are breathtaking…without your feet. I will believe that you were there without the forensic photo.

Speaking of pedicures, guys, why would you ever get one? Wash them daily. Clip them when needed. You’re done. And manicures? You MIGHT get a pass if your bride asks you to get one for those close-up wedding ring pictures. I said MIGHT. I’m still on the fence on this one.

Time to rip a little more on my “follicly challenged” gender. Plugs, weaves, toupees and comb-overs—what are you thinking?

Before you get defensive—“You don’t know what it’s like!”—I do. Losing your hair sucks. When I was around 11 years old, one of my sister’s told me that because my maternal grandfather was bald, I would be. I was lucky if I could grow a single hair on my chin, but I already had to accept the fact that the hair I did have would eventually be left on my pillow. And what type of balding would I be dealing with? The horseshoe pattern? The Eddie Munster widow’s peak? Hair in front, but the bald crown in back? This was a lot for a kid my age to process, so I did the grown-up thing. I pelted her with a Tinkertoy.

But when dealt a bad hand in life, it’s often about how you deal with it that matters. I chose the route of keeping my hair short and neat. And at 40 years old, I decided that clippers and a mirror were the way to go from here on out. Renowned scientists that I just made up have proven that it reduces wind drag. And I’m happy to say that a relatively high percentage of men out there share the same aerodynamic philosophy.

Some of you, however, strayed along the path of Burt Reynolds and William Shatner. And like Burt and Billy, we can tell. Even strangers who never knew you during your Mr. Clean days can tell. You look ridiculous. You’re not fooling anyone…except yourself.

Then there are those who choose the chemical route to keep their noggins covered—Minoxidil. The wonder drug whose side effects include swelling of the face and extremities, rapid and irregular heartbeat, lightheadedness, cardiac lesions, and hair loss! Punch yourself for being a dummy.

I think it’s best stop here. Let’s face it, gender mindbenders is a topic that fills books in libraries and websites on Al Gore’s invention, the “Internet,” much less a single blog posting. But if you have answers to the things I don’t get, feel free to educate me.

I’m sure I won’t get those, either.

I christen thee, uh, my first blog.

This is Heather’s fault. The blog, I mean.

I’ve never done it. Again, I’m referring to the blog. (Unless, of course, you’re my parents reading this. Then I’m also referring to the forbidden “it” from my years of Catholic upbringing.) However, as a professional writer in this day and age, Heather advised me that I should write a blog for many reasons. 

1. Everyone is doing it. (Blogging. Wow, again? Get your mind out of the gutter.)
2. It’s a great way to showcase writing ability.
3. I’ll keep my creative skills sharp as I continue the elusive hunt in the Serengeti known as the job market. 

So if you enjoy the words that I throw out here every now and again, thank Heather. If you don’t, blame Heather. And if you need someone to toss back a cocktail with, she’s darn good for that, too.

So what should I write about on this maiden voyage? Do I jump on the soapbox and rant about politics or some cause? Or should I keep it simple as I dip my toe into the blog water? Decisions, decisions.

I’ll start small. Something light, just enough to satisfy the appetite. My “word tapas,” if you will. How about—oh, I don’t know—saving the planet? That’s a light topic. I figured out just how to do that at three o’clock this morning. Here’s what happened:

Drip…drip…drip.

I asked my landlord about the leaky faucet a month ago.

Drip.

This is the third straight night that I can’t sleep.

Drip.

It’s Chinese water torture!

Each drip seemed louder and louder. They were all I could focus on. After awhile, they almost seemed to echo.

Drip.

Louder.

Drip.

And louder still.

Then it came to me—fixing leaky faucets could solve many of the world’s problems. It’s so simple! How did I not think of this sooner?

The first problem solved is obviously the elimination of wasted water and the harmful plastic bottles that end up in landfills. Just leave a Brita pitcher (shameless plug) in the tub or sink overnight; it would be filled, if not overflowing, by morning. That’s water for your coffee, oatmeal, plants, brushing your teeth and water bottle. Even better, we could send those collected droplets to third-world countries in need of fresh water.

The second most obvious advantage to eliminating drippy faucets is crime prevention. Yes, crime prevention. Drippy faucets keep people awake. People without sleep become cranky and react to frustrating situations in inappropriate ways. One might, perhaps, stick a zucchini in the cashier’s ear for accidentally being charged for a cucumber. Not appropriate. One might also try to speak to their landlord about a drippy faucet. How’s that inappropriate? It is if you climb in their window at three in the morning to discuss it.

Fixing drippy faucets also reduces the cost of healthcare coverage. That persistent percussion will surely drive you over the edge. Put you on the brink. Snap your mind like a dried twig. If you fix the leak, you avoid the cost of therapy. You also save on the cost of bandages for your forehead, which will be necessary from banging your head on the bedpost over the symphony in the sink.

Fixing leaks also solves unemployment. Think of the jobs created by the need to manufacture the washers to prevent drippy faucets. And the pipe wrenches. Someone would need to make pipe wrenches. We’d need people to sell the wrenches and washers, too.

Well, I think I’ve stated my case. Overall…drip…the world would be much better off…drip…if leaky faucets were fixed.

Drip.