Merely by chance, the Better Half and I avoided catastrophe the other night. Sitting wearily in front of the couch, we were flipping through the channels trying to find something to watch before heading off to bed. It is the Better Half’s habit to scroll alllllllll the way to the beginning and scroll allllllll the way through to the weird, obscure channels before finally making a viewing decision. I am not always 100% patient with this, but perhaps I have learned my lesson. Had we not flipped all the way back to the low-numbered stations, we would have missed the Emmys completely.
I realize that missing an awards show would not be cataclysmic for most sane human beings. But I never miss awards shows! (More specifically, awards shows for acting. I care not for your Grammys and lesser music awards shows.) I would have been ninety-nine shades of dejected if I had woken the next morning to discover that I had flaked out on the whole thing. (Thankfully, we tuned in just in time to see Julia Louis-Dreyfus win, and do that funny little bit where she and Amy Poehler pretended to accidentally switch acceptance speeches.)
As it turns out, the Better Half and I are a mite distracted by Events that are Transpiring in our lives. (More on that some other time.) And we must be distracted indeed for me to have nearly missed the only decent awards show until the Golden Globes (which only barely counts, anyway).
Anyhow, this got me thinking about the whole red carpet thing, and how much I would enjoy being one of the people who chats with the celebrities as they arrive. I know I’ve said this before, but what the hell — friends, I would destroy that gig. Destroy it. Not only would I comment approvingly about what people were wearing, but I would also watch their performances and make real-live intelligent conversation about them! I am constantly appalled at the inane babble the asshats who somehow landed those jobs spout when talking with the arriving celebrities. Unseemly as it may be to toot one’s own horn, I know I would be roughly seventeen jillion times better at it. If there’s one advantage to having been a slavish Oscars devotee since I was in high school, it’s that I would be able to parlay that devotion into appropriately informed banter with nominees.
I would destroy that gig.
So that’s this week’s Question — what job is your dream job, not merely because you’d enjoy it, but because you know you’d do better than the clowns who do it now? What, if there were any justice in the universe, would you be doing for money right this minute? And what hosers make you grit your teeth in fury when you see how badly they’re lousing it up?