…Follow Me, Tiny DAN-CEEER
Every now and again, Daver and I will set up shop outside (typically nursing a couple of cold frosty ones. Like Miller High Life: The Champagne of Beers) and discuss our children. His work tends to be the sort that my brain is not large enough to process and my “work” is so mind-numbingly dull (“…and THEN, and THEN I emptied the DUST BUSTER! Bwahahahaha!”) that neither of us care to discuss it.
So we instead discuss the future lives of our children. Hypothetically speaking.
And since I was a bit of a rebel in my own way (dude, have you MET NAT? Obviously a rebellion thing), I often ponder what my children will do to horrify me later in life. It’s inevitable, so we try to brace ourselves for whatever would bug us the most.
Which, maybe it’s because I’m so graceful that I nearly broke my foot walking down the stairs, or because last summer I literally fell through the front door while stone-cold sober, would be interpretive dancing.
Yes, I would die if my son became an interpretive dancer.
I have no real problems with dancer in general; if I were going to do something cultured, I’d likely chose the symphony or the opera–didn’t know your Aunt Becky liked opera, didya?–and not the ballet, but the ballet is different. I can understand ballet.
Interpretive dancing, however, baffles me. I simply don’t, and probably never will, follow or appreciate what some people think of as Dancing With The Music (Creepily). I just don’t get it. And I’m kinda freaked out by it.
I made the mistake of telling my older brother and his wife about this in a completely stupid turn of events, so now every time they see Ben, they encourage him to “do a dance that reminds him of a salad” or “doesn’t the thought of a cat make you want to dance like one?” I sit quietly there, while poor Ben tries to act this out, clenching my teeth and hissing that they had better get damn good and comfortable going to every.single.fucking.show.he.does.
They always laugh, seemingly unaware that I am deadly serious. I will drag them from their comfortable yuppie home and drive them to the abandoned warehouse my son–my interpretive dancer son–and his troupe of equally misguided youths (I hope) will perform for us all. In 100 degree heat. While we sit on the cement floor next to scuttling cockroaches.
And I will rue the day I had these as my siblings.
What would be the worst profession you could imagine your future child doing? Let’s assume that they are happy with it, so you can’t use any bullshit “whatever he’s HAPPY with” line. Let’s also leave “soldier” out of this one, because here on my blog you mean “politician” or “Republican.”
I appreciate what you said about, “soldier.” Almost as much as I appreciate the snort I had when I read, “Do a dance that reminds him of a salad.” Too funny! Interpretive dancer is hard to beat. I really had a hard time with this one so I asked my youngest which jobs he wouldn’t want to have. I don’t necessary agree with what he listed but it was interesting to see inside his brain. His list: pimp, waitressing at Waffle House, piercing people. Hmmm.
Catholic priest, hands down! I don’t think that needs any explanation whatsoever.
I would have to say DJ – because that means these hypothetical children will never move out of my basement and will have a wardrobe consisting of t shirts with radio logos and “Don’t hassle the Hoff” . Also they all seem to be man-child like without the firm grasp on reality.
Drag queen. Drag queen would be worse than an interpretive dancer in my eyes. Because that would mean that I probably took C shopping with me one too many times. And the fact that he knows what color of rouge looks better with those Choo’s than I do, well, that would just be disturbing.
Umm, basket weaver, social worker, podiatrist, banker, writer of obscure poetry. . .
Coming from a family of commercial fishermen, I’d have to say I’d be a little scared if he followed in those footsteps. That being said, it’s unlikely. Still… I see my mother worry every year all summer long. I see my brother’s girlfriend struggle with their relationship when he leaves for months at a time.
I don’t want to worry that much. About my sons. Yikes.
The political atmosphere in this country terrifies me so much more now that I have a son and another son on the way. It’s a selfish terror–I worry about what I could lose. If I had daughters I think I’d worry more about what they could lose.
ANYWAY speaking of interpretive dance, holy shit S is all about it. He does this epic interpretation of I Just Can’t Wait To Be King in which I’m pretty sure he attempts to embody every animal in Africa. I’ll have to get that shit on film some time.
Umm, I’ve never really thought of that. And you scrapped the whole soldier thing. (My DH is in the military.) Ummm. Umm. Most of what people have mentioned so far? I’d be cool with. Artist? Crazy scientist? Musician? All cool. Lame-ass management? Cool with that. I guess it doesn’t matter to me what he does… just why he does it. If he was some management that was an asshole, well then I’d have an issue. But that’s not really an issue with the position, just the attitude.
Ninja, definitely ninja. I’ve spent my whole marriage trying to keep M. from looking like Johnny Cash! And that would mean that M. had infiltrated their baby brain with one too many Power Rangers episodes (ya know, like 1 which is completely too many). Plus, all the throwing star holes you’d have to fill, and you’d never catch them or be able to find your kitchen knives!
I have to echo the thought about the why of the thing as opposed to the actual thing itself. But here are some of the things I hate and so would hate to have to go watch and pretend to be supportive about.
Golf. Oh I would rather watch the grass grow. Oh wait, that’s the same thing.
Boxing. There is no way I could watch someone beat my child and not jump in to defend him or her.
That thing with the broom and the thing you throw. This is an Olympic event. My child would be on their own on this one. I don’t think I could even pretend.
That’s all I can come up with right now but I am confident that there are several more things that would make me loony.
Simple: webcam star on a site featuring transexuals.
There are many things that would annoy me, but I think that would tell me I had truly failed.
I don’t think I can beat interpretive dancer…but I’m going to try.
Sandwich maker. Or Sandwich Artist depending on his employer.
exactly what he is doing right now…dead beat dad. and boy does he have it down to a science. the jack ass.
Too funny! I love the salad thing too. When I see this stuff on ‘So you think you can dance’ I scoff. I am quite confused by it myself.
My son, my beautiful boy..I feel like he could do nothing to disappoint me, but of course it is always possible. I would hate for him to have any kind of dangerous profession. I guess I would be most disappointed if I felt he did not fulfill his potential. Of course at this point we feel he will most certainly be a pro ball player of some sort because he is cool like that…but if he ends up doing something less than he could do..I’ll be sad. I think the same about all my kids really. (not the pro ball part) I don’t think I would be thrilled with any of them doing interpretive dance though.
Musician, duh.
I would hate for my son to be an accountant.
Just think it would squash his spirit.
xoxo
Ha! We talk about this a lot. My husband and I were both tortured Goth poet souls (him literally, me in spirit) in high school and have creative careers. So we have decided that BG (and any future hypothetical additional child[ren]) will clearly be rebelling against us by being popular cheerleader/football player/prom royalty types in high school, and then go on to become accountants, or possibly actuaries.
Porn star tops the list over here, I guess.
Who the hell wants to imagine their kid boinking noisily with random strangers on an endless string of poorly-scored Blu-Rays for all eternity?
The only thing that might keep me from flinging myself off a bridge if this scenario came to pass would be that I’m pretty sure you have to change your name, as a porn star, to something like “Jericho Schlongschlapper” or “Cherry Twinpeaks”, which might keep my contemporaries from making snide remarks about how proud I must be.
But then there’s the whole other horror of the Porn Star Among Us being found out accidentally, which gives me the double whammy of snide remarks and the acutely unwlecome knowledge of what kind of porn my friends and/or family are watching. Ugh.
Don’t even get me started on who the little actor would be dragging home for the holidays. I think I’d just start mainlining Stoli.
Heh, regarding porn star … Chris Rock has a hilarious bit about how if your daughter works the pole, you KNOW you f***ed up.
In our house we figure eldest daughter (always the contrarian whipper snapper already, at the ripe old age of four) is probably destined to do something professionally that drives us nuts. So I’m guessing Fox News reporter. Or depending on the day, possibly an economist? (Micro especially … those microeconomists are pretty annoying.)
I would hate for my kids to be prostitutes, for obvious (I hope) reasons. Or anything in politics at all. But for the most part I really don’t give a shit as long as they aren’t camping out on my couch at age 40.
Reality t.v. “star.” I would hate to see her so needy for validation that she would allow herself to be exploited for others’ entertainment.
On the interpretive dancing tip… is this the part where it’s funny for me to admit that during my creative movement class “recital,” I chose to perform the role of a refrigerator? Picture me standing in one place, vibrating my bent arms, looking vaguely like a mime stuck in a box. Even the creative movement hippies couldn’t figure out my brilliant performance. Trust me, it’s sad to have to explain one’s refrigeratorness.
Thus, I’ve decided to squash Kiddo’s creativity in the areas where she just may humiliate herself. Even more luckily, she’s such a linear kid that she has no desire to ever impersonate a refrigerator. Not even a really expensive one.
I put a little more thought into it and I’m not so fond of the idea that either could become a proctologist. I’m just saying.
When I was 23, I lived with a woman who was studying Modern Dance in university. She was cute, and was rather promiscuous when she drank. Oh, and we lived on top of a strip joint.
Seriously.
Ya know? I say that I don’t care what my children do, but that’s such a lie it’s not even funny. However, unless they become prositutes or crack whores, at this point I’m lost. (I would let them be airmen. Not soldiers. We’re an Air Force family, yo!)
Hmm. I often joke that my son will grow up to be a Republican Accountant, because both are stereotyped as uptight, tightly wound, ultra-contained folk. I actually don’t have anything against Republicans or accountants, so it wouldn’t be a bad thing…just stereotypically opposite the way he’s being raised, which is something akin to…OK, exactly akin to…feral hippy.
I think the worst thing he could grow up to be is a bigot of any sort. I’d be so disappointed. I don’t much care where he works, who he loves, whether he marries, or who, what, or where he worships, as long as he isn’t rabid about exhorting everyone else do the same…or excluding anyone who isn’t the same…or hating anyone who doesn’t do the same. So I guess I don’t want him growing up to be a televangelist!
Oh, and T? That broom thing in the Olympics is called Curling, and the only time I ever appreciated it was in Help! when the Beatles called the throw-y item an Evil Thingie. Go on, ask me more obscure shit, I’m full of it.
Shade and Sweetwater,
K
Prison Inmate. Boyfriend bettah mend his ways..or that’s where he’s headed.
Anything that requires them to make use of pseudonyms such as Ben Derover or Ebony Vixxxen.
I was running out the door earlier when my reader said you posted so I had to take a peak. I had gotten to your brother having your son dance like salad and I was laughing so hard I almost fell down the stairs. I had to tell my hubby and we both had a good laugh at your expense. sorry. but I really needed it so thank you.
Wow, there are so many things I don’t want my kids to do. but I try really hard to not think them or say them aloud in fear of jinxing the whole thing.
But I just really want them to grow up and out of my house. No basement dwelling, role-playing gamer, 30 year olds in my house please.
My eldest wants to be a missionary doctor, so I am proud but freaked out already. He decided this after reading a book of stories of horrid things happening to missionaries. Along with the good stuff of course. But scary for me.
Your kids will find something to freak you out with and let me tell you you won’t be expecting it. Don’t worry it probably won’t be intpretive dance. It will be something you did not consider nor brace yourself for.
I would just die if my girls were strippers, even if they were college educated, feminist minded, strong, aggressive women just doing it for the money and to exploit men ha ha as if thats possible.
As for my boys well I don’t care what they do so long as its “safe”, not against the law, earns them a living and they are happy and functioning like good men. Really I mean that.
i read ben derover as bendy rover up there in kymberli’s comment, which seemed like an interpretive dancer’s name, not a porn star. but now i see that it’s like bend her over. ha. but bendy rover is better i think.
i want at least one of my children to become a tv announcer, so that when he/she comes home for thanksgiving he can announce each thing that comes out of the oven. i’d feel famous and junk.
would not want any of them to work for oprah or harpo productions. even being on the dr. phil staff would be better.
I have nothing to add to this list. Drug addict and prostitute were already taken.
The furniture is from Wal-Mart (gasp!) by the way. I refuse to go there, but if they’ll deliver, then I’ll buy.
Fluffer on a porn set. I say if you’re going to do porn, do it, don’t just “help”. There, now that I’ve given them permission to do porn, they’ll run towards respectability. It’s all about reverse psychology. Heh.
Well… ruling out the obvious prostitute, stripper, porn star. I’d have to say I don’t want him to be a work-a-holic. There is far more to life that what you do for a living. For an actual profession… I’d say anything that makes him a celebrity. I just think that being watched and scrutinized constantly cannot be healthy.
Commercial crab fisherman–Deadliest Catch always freaks me out–how hard they work, no sleep, freezing waves, and if you fall in, you’re pretty much toast. The obvious ones, too, as mentioned above, and probably not gynecologists.
I’d be disappointed if one of the boys was a convict, or a drug dealer or a male prostitute, or a gym coach.
a bum, prostitute, stripper, mechanic, convict…etc.
Butcher.
hehe I love it. Please send me a ticket too. I’ll attend only to show you support. I love dancing (to watch, I can’t…LOL)but yeah I can’t get that style of it either.
A dentist.
Stripper….male or female.
I think I could handle anything else (legal of course)
The worst profession my future child(ren) could have?
Anything that provides a low salary. ‘Cause when I get old? I’m totally mooching off of them.
I told my son I don’t care if he turns out to be a homosexual interior designer, so long as he’s got a college degree and is happy. And sucessful enough to support me in the style to which I would like to become accustomed.
Something where his/her (read: my) values and/or principles and/or identity are compromised. I echo many of the responses here and include things that essentially renounce who my child is and where he/she came from. (not that I’m having any feelings left over from the wedding weekend).
If my child can support him/herself and likes what he/she is doing, is really engaged by it, then I’d like to believe I’d be all for it. We shall see I guess.
Carnival barker. I don’t trust anyone wearing unstructured suede boots.
Hooker. Call girl madame would be okay as long as she was calling the shots. But – lowly coke whore? No way.
Circus Tent Maintenance Engineer. Let’s just call it a shitty job and that’s it.
OMYGOD…I totally thought of a good one in the middle of the night–it kinda goes along with the interpretive dance thing–a MIME! Or a clown-hate those fuckers.
Anything that requires him to live in my basement is on my list. Other than that I don’t really care as long as he’s happy! 🙂
Podiatry. Holy shit. I would never be able to touch her again.
Professional football player. Televangelist. Video game developer. Being the uncoordinated, fallen-away Catholic who hates “gaming” mommy that I am.
Easy, Chris Crocker:
http://youtube.com/watch?v=LWSjUe0FyxQ
I know I’m a little (lot) late on this post, but there is one thought that would haunt me, and it could be a very close possibility… Disney show star (a la Hannah Montana) Oh the horror!