Follow Your Dreams?

Stranger In A Strange Land – No. 22

Lots of self-help “gurus” tell us to Dream Big to get what we want out of Life. “Follow your dreams and the money will follow,” they advise.

There are plenty of people who have done just that. We know this because they’ve taken the extra step of flaunting their stories across the media to remind us of their success.

But I suspect there are plenty more folks who took off after their dreams while the money fell far behind. Maybe didn’t even bother following. So I’ve little faith in the advice of the self-help experts.

Until today. My husband woke this morning and said he’d just had the strangest dream.

This is nothing new. My husband often relays the vivid alternative life he leads while asleep. So I presumed I was about to hear a variation on a theme.

But no. This time, instead of dreaming the fantastical or improbable, what unfolded was more anchored in reality. My husband had established a successful new business. It was a cafe where you could buy a gun and an artful cupcake, too. The business’s name was “Protect and Serve.”

If you live north of the Mason-Dixon Line, you’re probably shaking your head right now. But I have to tell you that sugary-sweet food is as popular in the Bluegrass as firearms. Guns and cupcakes could be a perfect combination here. That zany dream might just be my husband’s ticket to a new career and financial security.

Cue the orchestra: “To dream the impossible dream…”

How sweet it is.

[Cupcake pic from Travel Gal; Tiffany & Co. Smith & Wesson from Rock Island Auction Company.]

This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

I’m No Jane Goodall

I just broke up a squirrel fight.

I’ve seen squirrels fuss at each other before and give serious chase to an offender. But this was the first time I’ve witnessed two squirrels standing on their hind legs, face-to-face, while punching, clawing and biting each other. I yelled at them. Rather, I yelled at one to “Leave Stubby alone!”

Stubby, or The Stubster, is the gray squirrel I’ve been watching since Spring, so named because of his unusually short tail. He lives on the street’s edge in the canopy of an old oak tree next door to us. I’ve seen him IN the street once, but I don’t think he ever crosses it.

He started coming to our yard when we installed the bird feeders. Stubby’s never attempted to take seed from the feeders, a typical squirrel behavior that infuriates birders. He’s content to eat what the birds toss to the ground. Two or three Mourning Doves often join him for his repast.

I enjoy watching stubby “run” across the yard. He doesn’t move the way normal squirrels do. He’s more bunnyish—his stride is a little hoppy, his walk a little wobbly. He traverses almost as much vertical space as he does horizontal. The overall effect is Adorable x 10.

Except things have changed with the onset of Autumn. The neighborhood is FILLED with squirrels. Granted, the neighborhood is also filled with oak trees, but we seem to have a critical population explosion of the bushy-tailed. And a number of them have taken up residence in The Stubster’s tree.

I may not see him for days at a time now.

Last week a squirrel was hit by a car not far from Stubby’s home base. I panicked when I first noticed the body on the pavement. I moved closer for a better look: The tail attached to the unfortunate creature was long and full and not Stubby’s unique diminutive tail. Relief! (Then guilt for feeling relief.)

I’ve seen The Stubster behind our building twice now—well beyond his usual territory. What’s more, I spotted him on a telephone wire the other day. Typical for squirrels, right? But not for The Stubster. He had a terrible time keeping his balance up there. With each move forward, his rump would sway left or right and off the cable. I could hardly watch.

I know nothing about squirrel society, yet I suspect Stubby catches some flak for being different. In turn, he behaves oddly. This afternoon while other squirrels were industriously secreting away one acorn after another, Stubby would start to bury his single acorn, then think better of it. He repeated this digging-abandoning all over the yard, then along the driveway, next under three different bushes, and finally in the backyard where I lost track of him. I presume he was taking extra safety precautions to protect his treasures, but if he gives this treatment to each acorn, Stubby’s going to starve before Winter takes hold.

My concern for Stubby’s woes proves once again to me that I would fail miserably at field research. I have the observation skills, but not the objectivity. I can’t not intervene whenever trouble rises. I will always champion the voiceless and the underdog.

Or, as in the case of The Stubster, the undersquirrel.

[Pics are from Etsy, where you may find a gray squirrel of your own.]

The Curse of the Proofreader

Contrary to what you might think about proofreaders and editors, we don’t LOOK for mistakes when we’re not working. Mistakes seem to gravitate toward us.

A moment ago the word priviege spoiled my morning reading of a deftly written essay. A week ago there was a typo in my fortune cookie. (Does that render the prophecy null and void?) Ten pages into Stanley Fish’s How to Write A Sentence is a word that should have been singular but made its way into print as a plural. A job application asked if I was persuing a degree.

Oh, I could spend days listing the typos I’ve read this year alone—on menus, signs, press releases, news reports, television graphics, ads—but I’d prefer to forget them. I cringe when I see them, though there are a few of my ilk who delight in the mistakes of others—enjoy playing a game of “Gotcha!” with all printed materials. I’m more forgiving and feel bad for both the writer and the proofreader/editor when typos pop out. Do you understand how disruptive typos are to me? How they mar my pleasure and interest when reading?

There’s one exception. The other day, I was at my computer when an ad cried out for my attention. Typically, I ignore online ads, but this one made me laugh (after I recovered from my initial shock). In big, bold, uppercase letters it read:

INTROUDING the Must-Grab Flavors
of Mock-Tail Season
New _______ Mocktails

In addition to the butchered first word of the teaser, the company couldn’t decide* how to spell mocktail for their new product. (New products generally mean newly coined words and require corporate editors to create new rules for their style guides. Marketing campaigns that bypass the editor are often strewn with inconsistencies like mock-tail and mocktail.) Or maybe the joke’s on me and I’m just not fluent in Mock English (or mock English, or mock-English, or Mock-English).

When I’m working, I stalk typos. When I’m not, they stalk me. This is the curse of my profession. Oh woh iz mee.

* Arguably, perhaps the editor chose to hyphenate the word when used as an adjective and close it when used as a noun. However, that’s an odd choice in this era of dehyphenation.

[Photo from I Can Has Cheezburger; proofreader’s marks by Eve Corbel.]

César Millan, I Heart You…NOT!

“Incoming dog!” my husband warned me through the dense fog. We were on the beach taking my godpuppy* for his afternoon walk.

Before I could process what my husband had said, a massive, black-and-white Pit Bull was nose-to-nose with the Airedale I was leash-bound to. They took an instant liking to each other and started playing.

But the frolic was short-lived. The Pit Bull loped back from whence it had come, apparently being called by its “guardian.” I could hear the fellow scolding the pup: “You didn’t ask if you could play.”

Sounded harmless enough. I turned back to make introductions with the Pit Bull’s family and to rejoin my husband, who had stopped to take in the smells of the lake. But what I saw next is an image I can’t wrest from my mind, and it’s made it difficult for me to answer when people inquire, “How was your trip to Chicago?”

The slight, 20-something-year-old man who was calling for the Pit Bull (and before you jump to conclusions, there are lots of rescued Pit Bulls in my old neighborhood with guardians of every age, gender, and ethnicity) told the dog again, “You didn’t ask!”—then struggled to pick up what had to be a 90-pound pooch, twisted it upside down, and slammed it to the ground on its back.

WTF?!

I lost it. Yeah, second time this year—this lifetime—that I’ve screamed at someone. But truly, screaming was NOTHING compared to what I wanted to do to the guy.

“DON’T DO THAT TO YOUR DOG!!!” I yelled.

“I have to,” he calmly replied.

“No. You don’t.”

“Yes, I do. You don’t understand—”

“I don’t have to. Nothing warrants what you just did.”

“He didn’t listen to me when I called.”

“If that’s a problem, then why did you let him off-lead?”

“I was testing him.”

“ON A FOGGY DAY WHEN YOU CAN’T SEE MORE THAN 5 FEET IN FRONT OF YOU?!?! You’re an idiot.”

That’s kind of how the exchange went. Then I left the scene, furious. Walked up to the first dog person I could find and vented about the episode. Dog people form their own communities within neighborhoods and I wanted hers to keep an eye on this guy. I wanted word to spread.

Oh. One more thing about my ridiculous tête-à-tête with Mr. Clueless. He explained that, according to César Millan, his dog needs to learn who’s dominant.

“Dog Whisperer,” my a _ _. This was outright abuse. The dog wasn’t some crazed, tear-your-arm-off-rather-than-look-at-you killer. This was a sweet-tempered, oversized, overweight pooch who looked terrified and bewildered by the guy’s actions. Lucky the jerk didn’t break the dog’s back as well as its spirit.

Even before this happened, I’d read enough about Millan to cringe whenever anyone mentioned his name as a training guru. Sure, Millan has successfully impressed upon the masses the importance of training our dogs. I’m grateful for that. But my admiration stops there. He blatantly ignores what research has revealed about the canine brain and behavior. He sees everything through a dominance filter—even when it’s a neurological or hormonal issue best treated with drugs or plant remedies. Millan is a charismatic evangelist who’s gotten too much airtime** (thank you, National Geographic).

But back at the beach: While I still couldn’t function intelligently, my calm husband intervened. I watched from a distance as he kept talking to Mr. Clueless about positive training and gave him the name of the neighborhood trainer, told him to look up Patricia McConnell on the Web, and I don’t know what else. It seemed like Mr. Clueless really didn’t know there was another way to train his pooch.

Then I felt bad that I’d yelled at an ignorant person. (Yet not bad enough to apologize.)

That’s how my trip to Chicago went. It handily snuffed out my pipe dream of becoming a humane educator or animal lawyer—too much chance of ending up in the slammer.

* Paperwork has been drawn up to make me responsible for the Airedale if his current guardian dies or is unable to care for him.
** Visit Beyond Cesar Millan on the Web for a collection of articles about Millan’s techniques. You’ll have to sift through the muck about who the original Dog Whisperer was and which trainer should have been on Animal Planet, two issues that pale in comparison to negative training vs. positive training. And if you don’t know the difference, write to me. I’ll compile a reading list for you along with trainers in your area.

[Pics from top to bottom: the godpuppy; a Pit Bull named Reggie, similar to the one at the beach but waiting in Indiana to be adopted; the view from the beach toward the park; the man who ruined my day, César Millan.]

Want to Ensure Your Career Longevity?

If, like me, you found yourself jobless after many years of devotion to your craft, you may have begun your stretch of unenjoyment with some vague notion of starting a new line of work, or reinventing yourself, or turning your dedication toward a charitable cause or organization.

These are all honorable endeavors. But imagine, instead, digging your way deeper into your craft—examining its edges, experimenting with them, and pushing your boundaries beyond what was expected of you in your last position. Imagine discovering new elements of whatever your life’s work has been.

It’s this continued drive and curiosity to fully explore your work/art/craft/vocation that will sustain your interest and success in it. For a dose of inspiration, watch It Might Get Loud.

This documentary features three generations of guitar legends—Jimmy Page, Edge, and Jack White—and their approach to music. You won’t learn anything about their girlfriends/boyfriends, children, pets, pet causes, or fave hair product. You’ll see their connection to guitars; you’ll hear their passion for music; and you’ll want their enthusiasm for the new and untried.

You don’t have to like their music to appreciate how they create it. And you don’t have to be a veteran worker or a dislocated one to feel reinvigorated after seeing It Might Get Loud.

You might, however, start pining for a guitar.

The Jobhunter's Dilemma: Passion vs. Pragmatism

"Follow your passion."

This is the siren song of career coaches, career authors, and even my state's unemployment office. Everybody wants me to choose work that makes me happy, work that fulfills my aspirations.

The first step, they say, is to examine the characteristics inherent in certain types of jobs and determine how comfortable/content/enthused you would be about those traits. For instance, do you seek recognition for your work?

To this end, my state government encourages displaced workers to answer lists of questions in an effort to match passion with skills, and then directs the unemployed toward the appropriate career path.

Eager to follow my bliss, I answered all the questions and waited for my results.

"ACTOR/ENTERTAINER"

What?!? Heck, back in the Dark Ages when I was fresh from college, I knew the unemployment rate for actors: 95% unemployed. (I can't imagine what it is now.) And though my father didn't know this exact statistic, he had a hunch that the footlights wouldn't put food on my table and persuaded me to get a degree in something outside the performing arts.

And now here's the unemployment office—which, in the best interest of taxpayers, prefers to shoo people off the dole sooner rather than later—pushing me toward a potential life of poverty.

What's more, my skills don't necessarily prepare me to compete in the arenas that I would find fulfilling (in addition to the performing arts: animal welfare, museum studies, anthropology, archaeology, the fine arts). Following my bliss could mean queuing up at the food pantry. And I would guess that I'm not alone in this.

Still, it's worthwhile to at least consider the spectrum of career choices—from pragmatism to passion—so we can gauge what we're willing and able to sacrifice.

I've spent a number of months trying to find a job that lies on the outskirts of my passions yet requires the very skill sets I already have.

Nada.

Now I'm headed for the other end of the spectrum. So long, Sarah Bernhardt.

Widening the Net of Potential Careers

If you're on the dole in Illinois, you're required to set up a profile on the Illinois Skills Match site. Which I did after my first visit to the unemployment office. This amounts to finding the list of skills related to your previous job (or the job you want) and selecting the range of years that best describes how much experience you have with a particular skill. For instance, how many years' experience do you have in using a personal computer? Less than 1 year, 1-3 years, 3-5 years, more than 5.

Recently, I poked around further on the site and discovered that I could include skills from other career sets. For instance, my few years spent teaching high school students granted me a few more skills to add to my profile. This makes me more employable.

The point of the profile is to attract Illinois employers who are perusing the Web site. Ideally, the system works like Match.com. Realistically, it's a different story.

Imagine my delight the other day when I logged on to find 4—count 'em, FOUR—jobs awaiting my reply! Not one was directly relevant; one was truly a dangerous fit. "CHEMIST," it read.

Chemist? Yeah, based on the fact that I'd successfully taught a remedial biology class for a few months while the science teacher recovered from surgery. Worse, I failed the one and only chemistry class I took as a youngster. I asked more questions than the teacher had answers for and simply couldn't move forward with the material unless I understood it. Could I have just memorized the equations and conducted the experiments as my friends suggested I do? Could I have just not cared so much and not thought so much and aced the class like my lab partner did? Sure. But I didn't. I kept trying to find context to the lessons.

Now, looking back, I think I probably could have bluffed my way through the class. But I refuse, no matter how desperate I become, to bluff my way into a job. Especially a job in which I could blow up a room.

Sigh. Honesty has its drawbacks when jobs are scarce.