Jobs I Would Never Want

As Squish gets older, I find myself contemplating what my next career move will be. Will I be a full-time writer? That actually gets paid regularly? Do I pursue something at the zoo for fun? I’m not sure yet. But I do know that there are some jobs I hope I’m never forced into.

1) Barista at Starbucks – I once took my coffee cup Edward to Starbucks. As I handed him over, the guy behind the counter looked inside and said with heartbreaking sincerity “Thank you so much for bringing it in clean!” I don’t want to know what he was expecting to see.

2) Children’s hair stylist – I don’t know how they do it. It takes me four days to get from this:

A little shaggy, yes?

To this:

Blame the caffeine in my bloodstream or the bounciness of a three-year-old boy, but every time, he ends up nearly losing an ear. It’s bad enough when it’s my own kid. I can’t imagine gouging a stranger’s child. Because I would still expect a tip.

3) Any kind of costume character – especially the ones that stand on the street corner and wave to people. There’s a business who does tax prep in my area that has someone on the corner dressed as the Statue of Liberty. Rain or shine. Because nothing says America like being squeezed for your hard-earned bucks by the IRS? The worst I ever saw was a poor guy dressed like a mattress. I am sure there have been a few misunderstandings.

 4) Janitor at Wal-mart – I have been in lots of soulless big-box stores, and I’m not sure what makes Wally-world so very special in this way, but on any given day, I’ll tip the doorman if any of the toilets are flushed. Raised in a barn? Go do your dirty business at Wal-mart.

5) Taster in a fast-food test kitchen – because if a taco with a shell made entirely of Doritos actually made it to market,  I really don’t want to know about the stuff that didn’t.  I’m pretty sure it’s nothing I’d want to eat.  Although if Marble Slab Creamery needs a taste-tester, they need only ask.

6) Electronics store employee – on Black Friday. I hope they provide decent life-insurance policies. I think I would rather poke rabid squirrels with sticks than deal with bargain-maddened shoppers.

7) Party host at Chuck E. Cheese – Unrestrained kids on a caffeine/sugar buzz. That I’m sort of responsible for. Where do I sign up?

Achieving Peace and Harmony

My sister-in-law is fantastic. She’s funny and smart, and she gives the most wonderful gifts. Her choices are thoughtful and carefully considered, always appreciated. She tries to find the perfect gift for each person.

Best present EVER! I love it! It's mine, right? I don't have to share it? Because I love it, and it's MINE! Hands off!

.

Unfortunately, we’re at the phase where all gifts simply must be identical, and I don’t have the heart to tell her. She bought something truly awesome this time around, and my life is no longer worth living. Every single day, it’s the same routine:

“It’s MINE!”

“No, it’s mine! “

“It is not! Kris got it for ME!”

“Well, I’m just using it! I’m not going to hurt it! You’re supposed to share!”

“You never share with me!”

“You like the other one, anyway.”

“I do NOT! I want THAT one! It’s MINE!”

And on, and on, and on, and on.  Every single day. I am at my wit’s end. If this pattern continues, I will have to take matters into my own hands and buy my husband his own Contigo coffee cup so he will leave mine alone. It. Is. MINE.

It is dark, sleek, easy to hold, and you have to push its buttons to get anything out of it. I call it The Jacob.

Edward is a little jealous.

I will quit naming things after Twilight characters when people quit rolling their eyes when I do. Don’t reinforce irritating behavior. I am incorrigible. Don’t incorrige me.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday

Consider this my advance directive. I want to be buried with my awesome travel mug. It came from Starbucks, but I don’t hold that against it. I call it Edward because it is cold and sparkly on the outside, but it makes me all warm on the inside. Chew on that, haters.

Okay, technically, it’s my husband’s cup. But if he’s burying his wife, what kind of selfish turd would he look like if he refused a little request like a coffee mug?

I was going to be cremated, but this cup weighs something like two pounds. When my ashes are scattered in Matanzas Bay, I would hate for that heavy chunk of melted metal to fall out of the sky and kill manatee or a mermaid.

Look, but don't touch. It's mine. At least it will be in the afterlife.

So please, please bury me with it. Please. But not until I’m dead. Thanks!