It's always important to have a Plan B, and in that spirit, I've determined mine. If none of the current gigs work out, I've got my sights set on the next career move.
I'm going to become a parking lot attendant.
OK, it doesn't sound like much, but it's unlikely the ice sculptures of contemporary European heads of state thing is going to work out and my days as the only lifeguard who can't actually swim are pretty numbered. Since I've heard trying to make a living at something you do all the time anyway is the secret to success, I'm well on my way to becoming the Bill Gates of short-term automobile storage.
If there's one thing we do more of around the lovely Smith Parking Garage than binge-watch obscure British television series, it's park cars.
On any given Sunday, you can expect to drive by my house (if it's possible to get down my street at all) and see my car, the Lovely Mrs. Smith's car, my youngest daughter's car, my oldest son's car, my son-in-law's car, my youngest daughter's boyfriend's car and a couple of cars that I really can't identify as belonging to anyone at our house, all parked in the general vicinity of our driveway.
You'll likely see me backing, filling, nudging and generally trying to fit six cars in a four-car space.
If you could see in the garage, you'd see the "fun" car that belongs to my wife. If you can actually get in the garage, you're far more limber and far less bothered by claustrophobia than I. Congratulations. I guess.
It seems we have a lot of cars. They all have to be parked in such a way as to get them safely out of the general flow of traffic and not inconvenience any of the drivers of those cars. However, if that's impossible, then I'll be making sure I don't inconvenience drivers in the following order: 1. The Lovely Mrs. Smith. 2. Any and all of the rest of the whiners. This may be my first (and only) marriage, but it's not my first rodeo.
A word about why at least some of this is necessary. We have what is laughingly referred to in Northwest Arkansas as a two-car garage. I say laughingly, because the only way two cars would actually fit in our garage is if they were both sub-sub-sub compacts (think go-carts) with no side-view mirrors and you didn't mind exiting them by crawling out of the sunroof.
Compound this by the fact my wife has a career that involves great file cabinets full of sample books and the seemingly eternal storage of furniture and accessories that actually belong to someone else and that our progeny have decided, hey, who needs self-storage when they can just dump all their stuff in our garage?
Periodically (like about every three days), my wife determines the garage needs cleaning out and that it can actually be done. Periodically I greet this with an enthusiastic nodding of my head and an understanding it's never going to happen but I should act excited about it, anyway.
Delusion -- the bond that holds a good marriage together.
My only complaint about this desire to clean out the garage is the Lovely Mrs. Smith has a habit of looking past the aforementioned cabinets full of stuff, bins of holiday decorations, garden tools we no longer use, the detritus of our numerous hobbies and the former contents of at least one apartment and a dorm room. No, the problems are clearly a golf bag and two fly-fishing rods, which just happen to belong to me.
What bears mentioning in all of this is the garage could be one of those spotless caverns you see on commercials (and I could have one of those spotless families who never spill a quart of grape juice in the back of the expensive imported SUV while they all drive to Yosemite for the weekend) and I still wouldn't be able to park a half-dozen vehicles in it.
Which brings me to my next career option. I've been watching YouTube videos, and I've come across one of cats building a parking garage, and frankly, it doesn't look that hard. OK, well, maybe the part about getting the hardhats to stay on their heads is a little tough but other than that, piece of cake.
If that doesn't work out, have you ever wondered what Angela Merkel would look like carved out of a block of ice?
GARY SMITH IS A RECOVERING JOURNALIST LIVING IN ROGERS.
Commentary on 06/05/2014