Montanaman, I instantly thought of you:
“I Am Only a Father” by Creative Minority Report’s Matthew Archbold.
Enjoy.
That was awesome. I could have written much of that (up until being a stay-at-home-dad, which I can’t be, not yet.)
The tidal wave at work seems to have washed over me, and I’m still standing, albeit wet, shaken and full of crabs. (Wait–bad analogy–make it “covered in starfish.”) However, I’m facing a bit of a dilemma right now. It’s a good one to have, don’t get me wrong. I might be blessed with opportunity.
Er, let me explain…
That headhunter who called me yesterday directed me to the website of the company looking for people. It’s a PR firm, and it’s conservative, but they unashamedly advertise their unique ability to get messages across by
redefining the debate. You know, making things like “estate tax” say “death tax.” Now, I’m all for using words effectively to make a point, but I have a well-developed pet peeve about
twisting words to make a point. Ideas have consequences, and words have meanings. (It drives me up a wall when Protestants say “NOT BY faith alone means BY FAITH ALONE.”
Anyway, I was going to turn the recruiter down, but then the devil took the phone from him, (“Pardon me, Roger, I think I can handle this…”) and poured honey into my ear.
“I told XYZ Company about your background,” Lucifer said. “When they found out you worked for
The Vast Right-Wing Conspiracy Times], [the PR department of the Ridiculously Ineffective Government Agency], and [The Stealing Candy From Babies Foundation], they wet themselves. Now they’re thinking about putting you in some type of managerial or directorship position, if you check out okay.”
Now, before they knew more about my resume, they were offering any candidate roughly $15,000 more than I make now. That would basically be a God-send. But now that they’re talking about giving me more, potentially, the blood in my veins has turned to slushy ice. If the last few years have taught me anything, it’s that my writing skills peaked somewhere around my sophomore year in college, at least as far as corporate or ideological America goes. These people want me to MANAGE other writers and researchers? Hah! I’m the kind of guy who sometimes forgets where he put his glasses–AND I DON’T WEAR GLASSES!
I know, I know–poor little yuppie. Please try to understand that until today I was giving serious thought (I’m not kidding here…) to going back to house painting where, while the work is still back-breaking, at least nobody rips the paint off the house, critiques it, wallpapers the exterior, and then asks you why it looks like a Dartmouth frat house floor after mid-terms. (I have it on good authority it’s not pretty).
So, go work temporarily for the devil, if he offers the job? Or continue with the equivalent of white water kayaking UPriver?
Decisions…decisions…