As I was awakened from peaceful slumber with what seemed to be a loud argument between my allegedly sleeping children who had risen two hours early to watch tv and were fighting over the remote but upon a Further Fallon Investigation (FFI), it was determined that....
It was a dream.
But I SWEAR I heard them arguing.
Maybe I have some weird kinda tinnitis going on, where the ramblings of the Sparrow don't just echo in my ears, but also my subconscious.
I traipsed into the living room at FIVE O FOUR AM, after finally getting to sleep at ONE FORTY FIVE AM (FRICK A FRACK A FRICK A FRACK), and of course, found perfect silence and silent darkness.
I am such an idiot. It was 'just a dream', as Hairy Underwear (the moniker established for Carrie Underwood by, you guessed it, the Sparrow) would sing.
So, I return to bed.
And started to think about.......supper for tonight.
Heck if I know.
Anyway, I was thinking that I had some thawed chicken tenderloins, and was trying to mentally scan my recipes for something that the kids 'love', as we can have a 'real meal' tonight because there is no baseball game.
At the same time that I am mentally preparing dinner, 14 hours EARLY, a thought occurred to me.
I have said it once, and I will say it til the day it can no longer be said - you don't EVEN want to know what goes on behind the skullcap of THIS brain. Even I, keeper of said brain, fear what's in there. Which is why I will never submit to hypnotism. Ever. I'm scared to death of what they might 'find', and then they'd probably send me to some psycho underground chamber where Will Smith and Tommy Lee Jones simply 'erase' my brain, Men In Black-style. What I do know is that there is potetntially enough daunty stuff in there for me to become downright horrified once it's revealed and unleashed.
Okay, this post is not about physiological psychology, although it could be, as I would be more than qualified to hold such a deliberation, so says that pretty framed piece of paper hanging on my wall. But alas, it's not.
As I lay in bed, hoping that sleep will come 'right back', yet knowing that of course it will NOT, thinking about chicken tenderloins, the proverbial light illuminated.
How do the chicken farmers/slaughterers separate the chicken tenderloin from the chicken breast? Hmmmm? Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Is there REALLY a machine that is capable of splaying a dead, headless, featherless chicken on a conveyor belt, removing the skin and bone and slicing the premium parts of the once-feathered, now-slaughtered barnyard fowl in just the right places?
In the flash of a non-blinked eye, my bizarre inner monologue of the lamentations of the chicken slaughterers quickly became something even more quirky and ridiculous.
I decided, right then and there, that I would NEVER want to be a chicken farmer. Bleck. And I am a consistent consumer of cooked chicken. Lots and lots of it, and I thank God for Mr. S. Truett Cathy and his pioneering 'invention' of Chick-Fil-A every now and again.
Then, my brain took a trip, threading through thick thorny thistles of thought.
I started thinking of all the 'jobs' I would NEVER want to have. Not just "Dirty Jobs", Mr. Mike Rowe. Just plain 'unpleasant jobs that have no appeal to me whatsoever, and actually disturb me that anyone would choose such career paths or to be so unfortunate as to have little or no choice to function in these areas of employment, let alone potentially thrive. And the numbers and types of those jobs began to add up really quickly.
And to quote the Staples' commercial, "That was easy".
And then I took my thick thorny thistles of thought for a trot around the corner.
I thought of starting a blog carnival, entitled, "Who-What-Where-When-Wednesdays".
'cept I'm so technologically impotent, I don't know how to capture my own html code, load it onto my blog, and have a REAL blog carnival. But there are those of you out there who do, (SHANA!), and I'm hoping you'll feel some sympathy for my ignorance and assist me with my complete unrealistic fantasy of Mommy Blog greatness.
Until someone (SHANA!) schools me on implementing html code, I have chosen to begin my very first blog carnival for Who What Where When Wednesday, sans the link back to my blog.
And I don't have any giveaways, because I don't have any 'real' advertising, and I'm still in the prenatal stage of blogging, but I do hope you will 'ride' my carnival, perhaps even have some fun and play along nicely with others, and check back next week to see if (SHANA!) heard my cries for my help, and made this a REAL blog carnival!
Today's topic is: What Job/Career Would You NEVER Choose For Yourself?
Here goes my top ten list:
- Chicken Farmer/Slaughterer
- Septic Tank Emptier
- Mother of Multiples - hey, I'm not knocking anybody else here, but I have ONE SINGLE SOLITARY SON who hath convinced me that he himself is TRIPLETS in and of himself. I don't think there could possibly be any more anguish (or hilarity) if there were physically three of him, as there are most definitely, at a minimum, three of HIM in HIS head, and of course, MINE as well. Which leads me to number.....
- Mother of the Spawn - yeah I'm his Mama, and yeah, I love him, and yeah, he cracks me up and gives me awesome writing material, but No, I would never have chosen this line of vocation. Or Chinese water torture, as it often seems as insufferable as "Don't EVEN ask me what happened today".
- Speaking of vocation - I don't think I'd make a great cloistered nun. Forget about the whole celibacy issue. They don't have pretty shoes, so, yeah, I couldn't do that job if I can't wear low rise jeans and pretty shoes.
- Colo-rectal surgeon. Does one really 'choose' this as a specialty? Do you make more money if you are a butt guy, rather than a boob guy? Is it really 'worth' it to shove lasers and scalpels into the asses of near strangers, day in, day out? Is it 'fun'? Honestly, does one wake up one morning in their second year of medical school and exclaim, "I want to be an Ass Man"?
- Toll booth cashier
- A Zoo Poop Scooper for extremely large turds excreted from animals such as lions, tigers, bears, oh my.
- Brussel Sprout Taste Tester
You'll notice I have chosen eleven, not 10. I couldn't stop, to be honest, and if i really tried hard enough, I'd probably end up with 80.
Waiting with baited breath to hear "yours".