Jobs I Want: Cheese Analyst

If you're someone who knows me well, you know that I used to edit some magazines owned by this evil, horrible man named Tom Petters.

If you think you've worked for a worse boss, you're wrong. As proof, I offer you Mr. Petters' mug shot.

Does your  boss have a mug shot? Did your boss at least look at the stupid camera for his or her mug shot? Mine didn't, because he was really ashamed of the massive Ponzi scheme he'd created, and terrified of the fallout of bilking his employees and investors out of billions of dollars. Did your boss do that?

Okay, then. My boss was the Worst Boss Ever.

But that's beside the point. The point is, when a massive FBI raid began the chain of events that led to my layoff, I found myself a bit traumatized, and so I vowed to be my own boss as much as possible for the rest of my life.

It sort of worked. I've done some freelance stuff, and waited tables, and generally avoided additional Scary Bosses. Mostly, this is awesome, but every now and again I find myself pining for the days when I  did lots of really productive stuff, like changing out of pajamas or earning a living wage. 

Sometimes, I discover careers at which I'm entirely certain I'd excel. When this happens it can be very, very tempting to apply for the position, until I remember that I am a writer and therefore entirely unemployable if I want to be paid with, like, a salary. 

But sometimes there's hope. Sometimes, I find a job that seems like it was custom-made, just for me. These jobs meet all of my requirements. They're fun. They require no pointless meetings. I already possess the expertise required. Jobs like these, I'd probably do for free. 

Did you know, for example, that the Tillamook Cheese Factory in Tillamook, Oregon employs people called "Cheese Analysts"? According to Tillamook's Web site, a cheese analyst's duties are as follows:

Cheese analysts take core samples from a random sampling of cheese blocks every day. They taste and smell the cheese, checking flavor and texture to determine which cheeses need to be sent back for further aging into sharp and extra-sharp varieties.

Um, hello? Hire me, Tillamook? I'm smart, and I'm good at random things, and I for realz know when cheese tastes good. I won't ever complain about the job. Instead, I will show up on time, and eat tasty cheese all day long, just minutes from the pristine Oregon coast. When I am done analyzing cheese, I will go home and sleep it off, and then come back and do it again the next day. I'll be like Templeton from Charlotte's Web, and you'll be my veritable smorgasbord. We're a perfect match. It'll be great.

So please, if you're a hiring manager at Tillamook (or any other reasonably decent cheese factory, for that matter), consider that I dream of being paid to eat...or even just eating for free?

It's the holiday season, Tillamook. A time when dreams come true. So cut a girl a break, eh?

Wish List, Item 3: Stuff That Helps Me Cope With Snow

I'm presently hanging out at 36,000 feet or so, Portland bound.

Behind and below me, Minnesota is in the throes of the third Snowmageddon event of the year.

Each one has created a different sort of adventure for me. The first Great Big Snowstorm this year came unseasonably early, prompting a white-knuckled, low-speed trip to Hell Target, where I encountered every other parent who had not yet purchased boots for his or her child. We got the last pair of size 6 boots in any style or color and the last cute yellow hat. My children, who as children occasionally lack things like "common sense" and "nerves," paid me back for my valiant efforts by requesting that I take them sledding four times in two days. I'm working on regenerating the toes I lost that weekend. I'll keep you posted on progress.

The Epic Day-Before-Thanksgiving Travel-Stopping Blizzard-To-End-All-Blizzards of 2010 was a massive disappointment at my home. That's okay, because I wasn't at home. I was settling in for a ski trip with my kids on the North Shore of Lake Superior. We'd heard reports of an impending super-doomy storm, due to arrive at 4 o'clock on Wednesday. At 7 o'clock, nothing was on the radar. We decided to get dinner at the infamous Sven and Ole's, where we sat in a room that's looked exactly the same since 1970 and ate food that was possibly made in 1970. A few flakes were falling when we loaded into the car to drive the 22 miles back to Lutsen.

By the time we got out of the tiny town of Grand Marais and safely onto curvy lake-side cliffs, there was enough snow to make me nervously hum The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. I'm quite certain that it was my silent prayers, coupled with the gales-of-November jokes and abundant backseat driving, that kept Gitche Gumee from swallowing us whole that night. I was repaid for my heroics with a long weekend spent skiing with my children, which was difficult, as I'd lost all my toes sledding the weekend before.

Tonight's storm, however, was somewhat kinder. You see, it hit at the precise moment we left for the airport, which might sound like a bummer to you. It's not. We boarded on time, and only took off an hour and 20 minutes late, and in between, I got to watch them de-ice our plane. Dude. That machine is my new favorite thing on Earth. It looks like a robot-alien, all hard at work to make the all the little planes fly safely! So cute...

So, if you happen to be or to know Santa Claus, you might want to pass along that I'd really like a de-icing truck for Christmas*. If I've got to live on the tundra with no toes, it's only natural to want to spray large machines with green goo, isn't it?


*I would be totally content just to ride along in one, if Santa is too busy making Hex Bugs to build me my own de-icing rig in time for Christmas. Riding along in a Sno-Cat on the side of a ski hill would be an acceptable substitute, in a pinch.

**In the event that none of the above fantasies are possible, I would be content to receive a one-way ticket to Maui. Thanks, Santa.

Wish List, Item 2: A Bigger Magic Wand

I learn stuff from Waffle Guy all the time. This is because he knows a lot about a lot of things.

Before I met him, for example, I didn't know what the greater omentum was. I didn't know that a Gibson J-45 is my favorite-sounding acoustic guitar. I didn't know what it was like to drink a Bitburger in Bitburg. And I had no idea whatsoever that the maitre d' at Sanctuary is one of my favorite strangers in Minneapolis. 

I learned all of these things because Waffle Guy is extraordinarily generous in spirit. He shares all the time, with all kinds of people. He shares what he knows, what he has, what he does. Because of his unwavering propensity to give, I can see possibilities I'd never imagined before. I see the world from a different place, now that I know him. I couldn't be luckier. 

Sometimes,  I'm reminded again of this wonderful aspect of his personality. For example, the other day I was struggling with some stuff that life has thrown my way in the past few weeks. I felt disheartened and icky and sad, and I told Waffle Guy that I just wanted to do something that would make me feel like I was spending my time on something good. I asked him what he thought about "adopting a family" for the holidays. 

Of course, Waffle Guy agreed, and so we got in touch with an incredible organization called People Serving People.  They run a large shelter that provides transitional housing for children and their families who would otherwise be sleeping on the streets. The shelter provides a safe, sober environment in which families are able to rebuild lives that have been interrupted by any number of terrible, traumatic events. 

People Serving People actually sent me a list of families from which we could choose. It was gut-wrenching to pick just a family, and so I asked my daughters for their input. They decided that they'd like to help kids their own ages, and so they selected a family comprised of a 29-year-old mother and her three young children. I'm elated. 

It's like I've been given a magic wand, and I can wave it, and for just a few minutes life might feel better for someone. I have the first names and ages of the family members on a sheet of paper in my pocket, and I've been thinking hard about what to give to them. 

I've also been thinking hard about the other families on the list. 

One, in particular, stood out. A 43-year-old woman has two teenaged sons and a pre-teen daughter. I wonder if it's harder for teenaged kids to adapt to life in a shelter than for younger children, who so readily roll with the punches. I wonder if we picked right. 

I don't know anything about this family except for their first names and ages, and that they're homeless. But I can't stop thinking about those kids. It's hard enough to be a teenager. They're forever comparing themselves to everyone else. Other kids can be mean. Under the best of circumstances, it's so hard to feel like you measure up. Can you imagine what it would feel like to navigate that, without even a home in which to find sanctuary? 

I've thought about it, and decided I want to try an experiment. It's risky, because it will either reinforce or dent my faith in humanity, but I want to give it a whirl. 

I want to use my social network to adopt that family. If you live in the Twin Cities, and you're in my online sphere, and it seems like it would feel good to you, would you commit to purchasing one gift for either a teenaged boy or an 11-year-old girl? 

I'd love nothing more than to send an email to People Serving People to tell them that a few more kids might feel the warmth of possibility for a few minutes on Christmas.

What if a little collective generosity of spirit could remind these kids that one's view of the world can change? 

Email me if you're in at wafflequest2009 (at) gmail (dot) com.

No pressure, friends. Just thought I'd see anyone else wanted to make the magic wand a little bit bigger.

Wish List, Item 1: Belly Laughs

At the request of her parents, one of Waffle Guy's daughters sends out a holiday wish list to a few key relatives. It's a very exciting thing to get, not only because her wishes are adorable, but because it instantly prompts my inner six-year-old to feel gleeful and joyous. Did you do that, as a kid?

 Remember sitting down with a toy catalog and circling every imaginable toy? Remember wondering what sort of magic you'd discover on Christmas morning?

Remember being certain that there would be magic?

In recent years, I've been an ardent subscriber to the "it is far better to give than to receive" school of the holidays. I'm sticking to it, for the time being, because there's a thrill in giving that is unparalleled, and I will continue to selfishly seek that high as often as possible.

But when I looked over the wish list in my email inbox, it occurred to me that a wish list is perhaps an exercise in faith. That Waffle Kid sits in her apartment, and compiles a collection of things that she believes will enhance her life. And then she sends them to people that she knows are waiting for it, wishing to make her happy. She is certain that there will be magic, too. Her list is proof.

And so, I browsed a Web site or two, looking for silly things that would make me smile. And I compiled my own list, imagining opening each of those ridiculous items and guffawing so hard that I ached. Really, it doesn't matter one iota whether I get any of them or not. The point is, I learned some important things about wanting.

First, it's not greedy to wish for things. Wanting exciting and new things in our lives is what keeps our lives exciting and new. It's possible to be generous and to want.

I know what I want for Christmas this year: A house full of people, a great big dinner, and a whole lot of laughs.

And also, this marshmallow gun.