Accidental ABBA

Costco Wholesale’s MidYear Inventory is fast approaching, which reminded me of the funniest inventory story I have had to date.

I blame my mother and my Filipinoness, really. Karaoke, that is. I’m a proud American-Filipino, so I’m confident every American Filipino is born with a mic in their hand, and a rice cooker in the other. Standard issued cultural items.

Accidental ABBA.

Karaoke Scary?
Accidental ABBA

In 1996, I was a supervisor for the now defunct Thrifty Payless Drug Stores Inc.

One particular morning, I was assigned inventory count in our warehouse at the back of the store. I plugged in the overhead music, which was nothing more than Muzak tracks on a repeated loop. I needed some white noise, even if it was the same 8 songs that I’ve heard for 5 years.

I knew every lyric of every song by memory.

Once ABBA’sDancing Queen” popped on, I launched into singing into my Papermate microphone, and my clipboard tambourine.

I was alone in a 1,000 square foot area, so I flexed my golden pipes. As the song faded into the next one, I heard a faint clapping hands from the overhead office from the accountant that had no doubt been there the whole time.

Then that erupted into full blown applause at the end of performance mixed in with laughter from the morning crew that had gathered by the swinging doors which I didn’t notice.

Fantastic, I thought. I’ll never be able to live this down with a crew comprised of an ex-Marine, a practicing boxer, and a Korean War vet. Over the next couple weeks, my work desk was adorned with ABBA posters, a white belt, a pair of white boots, and of course, a real tambourine.

I digress.

I finished my inventory count, and continued to work.

Years Later …

Being an on-again-off-again karaoke host, I’ve come to the conclusion that everyone has one good song in them. Whether they’ve belt it out in their car, shower, or empty crib, they have that song that speaks to them.

I’ve seen the gamut of singers: ex-professional singers to sloppy drunk singers.

What’s your go-to karaoke song, Spaceship Earth? Or if you had a gun to your head and you were forced to sing a karaoke song, what would it be? (this is affectionately known as a karaoke suicide – a song that’s unpolished)

Comment below, lemme know what you think!

Be good like you should, but if you can’t be good then be good at what you do!

Microphone drop! bOoM

‘los; outro.

A Thief, A Lunch and Just Desserts

Every workplace I’ve been in has a communal refrigerator(s) in a break room. In 2003, Costco Travel was no different. What was different was the rampant lunch theft once a particular employee was hired.

I’m a generous person almost to a fault. That said, I won’t tolerate theft. It’s deceitful, and disrespectful. To me, it means you didn’t have the respect in simply asking for my help, and instead you stole it from me.

That angers me to the soul. So a thief, a lunch and “just desserts” added up to the following story.

A Thief, A Lunch and Just Desserts
A Thief, A Lunch and Just Desserts

Coincidentally, the suspect’s name was Charles (Carlos is Spanish for Charles) He was hired to be a cruise agent on the phone lines, just like me.

If memory serves, he was hired from #HollandAmerica – after he was fired from there for undisclosed reasons.

Since his arrival, every week a rumored report of a lunch theft would circulate amongst the work force.

That is … until it was almost daily.

This continued until it happened to me.

I remember distinctly that I brought in last night’s dinner leftovers, in Tupperware, in a sealed Safeway plastic bag. Not gonna lie, on this day I was looking forward to it. In fact, I was salivating over the thought of devouring it.

To ensure it wouldn’t be mistaken by co-workers, also wielding other plastic bags as lunch bags, I placed it in the corner of the top shelf.

Finally it was lunch time, so I sought out my lunch. After a few moments of fruitless searching, I gave up. I had determined I am a victim of the elusive lunch thief. Without anything to eat, and only allowed a 30-minute lunch period, that was simply not enough time to leave Costco Travel, find something in lunch-time Issaquah traffic, and return back in time.

I had 28 minutes to contemplate every aspect of this situation. Was the thief unable to pay for food, and desperate enough to steal? Was it some sick thrill they have?

I was younger then so revenge was what I sought out.

For lack of concrete evidence, that is what I got.

Before returning home, I stopped by Fred Meyer to pick up baking supplies, and Ex Lax, the go-to laxative medicine.

THE NEXT DAY …

I brought two lunches into work the next day. One that needed to be refrigerated (the decoy or bait lunch) and one that I stored at my desk drawer.

I made chicken with a chocolate adobe / mole type sauce, some corn, and two brownie slices for the bait lunch – both the entree and dessert had the entire box of Ex Lax in it. I wanted maximum effect so I only added it at the end so it wasn’t heated up or cooked off.

I walked by Charles’s cubicle with my tell-tale plastic bag in my hand, cruised to the break room, squirreled it away as best I could and waited.

I didn’t have to wait long to observe Charles leave his desk.

As I mentioned I broke up the pieces of the entire box into the meal. So it wasn’t long before the Ex Lax to take effect. Shortly after taking his lunch time, he departed home unexpectedly.

THE NEXT WEEK …

For the remaining time Charles was employed there, while I was, the lunch thefts were down to zero after that fateful lunch.

Now I can’t outright accuse him of lunch theft, but I can say if you do steal someone’s lunch – or continue to steal your co-workers’s lunches …

Eventually you’ll eat your “just desserts”.

‘los; out

Epitome of Keep Digging

My friends and family could tell you that I quip, “keep digging” as inspirational words often.

It’s the subtitle of this website, as a matter of fact.

The epitome of keep digging was this experience I shared with my bro, Jason E. It was an incident that happened over 10 years ago, but still resonates with that man …

It all started with a boat party on Lake Union.

Club Vibes

After an invitation I received for a Club Vibes hosted party on the boat christened, The Islander, I promptly bought two tickets. I invited my bro to play the role of wingman for me.

We were two active bachelors in the Seattle nightclub scene.

Since the dock for disembarkation was the ‘dreaded downtown Seattle’, I volunteered to drive us. I was unfamiliar with the exact location, I typed in the address into my GPS device I won from the Costco Travel Holiday Party.

I called it: Molly Magellan.

In retrospect, it sounds like a stripper name … hindsight being 20/20 though. I parked on 4th Ave near the Seattle Cinema on street which was in the heart of gang related crime area. I didn’t do myself any favors by parking driver side (left) to the sidewalk on this one-way road with my GPS device not hidden from view as it was stuck on the windshield.

We had about 2 hours to kill prior so we walked over to Westlake Mall for dinner, etc.

2 hours later …

As we walked up to my car, 2004 Acura RSX Type-S that I’ve dubbed the Sapphire Sled, I noticed shattered glass on the sidewalk next to it.

Sure enough, a thief was brazen enough close to dusk to smash my driver side window, and rip out the GPS device for a quick sell at a pawn shop. Jason looks at the mess, and grumbles, “I guess that’s it for our evening, right, Los?”

I’m already assessing the situation, by opening the trunk of the Sapphire Sled. I rummaged around my gym bag for my damp towel from that morning’s workout.

Jason watches in stunned amazement as I casually sweep the glass from the passenger seat into street, the driver seat, from the door frame. He looks at me, “You’re not calling the Seattle Police?”

“Nah, bro. We keep digging. We have a boat to catch on time. Get the f**k in the car,” I barked.

I explain calmly, even though I was seething in anger inside, “Look, J. By the time I called the po-po, and they actually show up it’ll be hours later. They’ll be preoccupied with drug dealers, shootings, murderers, and more.

“We’ve paid for the boat tickets, they’re non-refundable, and I won’t be an insurance claim for the Magellan device that I should’ve turned off and hidden from view. Let’s just keep digging, get tore up on the boat and have the best time we can.”

We did have a blast on The Islander, even though it was unseasonably cold.

Epitome of Keep Digging

He asked me, after I parked the Sapphire Sled at the dock, “What about the broken window? What if someone steals the radio?”

I smirk, “Then I’ll serenade to you on the ride home. Let’s bounce, bro. ‘sides, I can’t feel more violated. The damage has been done.”

Let It Snow! Let It Snow!

As I drove us home on I-5, I stopped at the Wallingford location of Dick’s Drive-Thru Burgers out of obligation. We left the boat party with no contact information for any of the lovely ladies onboard the boat.

It was called: food of shame

Once I returned to the freeway, it started to SNOW. I gnashed my teeth together, “Are you f**king kidding me? Snow? SNOW!”

I blasted the heat to maximum, turned up the radio to all our fav songs that we sang to stay as warm as possible.

When I dropped off Jason to his vehicle, I quipped, “When I say keep digging, to keep digging through adversity, adapt, overcome obstacles, and win … this is what I meant.”

He smiled, “Of course, Los. Keep digging yourself.”

‘los; out

My Health Before My Wealth

The accumulation of wealth has been a troublesome, and consistent theme of my life, as well as other Americans…

I prided myself on my “side hustles” such as being an entertainer, a business consultant, and #Instacart Full Service Shopper to name a few. Which meant my exercise routine(s) were abandoned to pursue these money generators.

As you can imagine, I gained weight, seem to be more sick and more often, and tired continuously. It all took of three seconds to realize what happened. I prioritized my wealth before my health.

I was disgusted with myself. I literally mumbled to myself as I stared down at the bathroom scale in my master bathroom.

“You fat f**k”

Myself – November 2017

 220.5 pounds steadily displayed on the blue L.E.D. Thirty pounds overweight, even though I was in the middle of my 2017 #TabulaRasaDay Declaration of 100+ workouts.

I had put my accumulation of wealth before my health. Now, it’s visible, it’s tangible. Like an epiphany, I needed to do something drastic!

I needed to retool my plan.

I needed to re-prioritize.

My Health Before My Wealth

I realize I only have 86,400 seconds per day to accomplish whatever it is I wanted to do. So I knew I had to put my health before my wealth accumulation.

I woke up earlier than my alarm would dedicate. I signed-on to my Instacart app to cancel all my hours. I was eating fast food meals while I traveled around in my vehicles because I didn’t have a plan for eating on the road.

In addition, I didn’t exercise because I prioritized working through my available hours over health.

First step done: free up my limited daily time.

I combed through my notes from my personal trainer, Chelsey Pleasant nee Stoner. We connected through email, Google Sheets, and Messenger for 22 Weeks.

I analyzed all of the data briefly to assess I wouldn’t be able to recreate that on my own. I sought her out on the inter webs as I realized she gained popularity, moved to the East Coast, and most likely running her own business.

She is. It’s called H.I.T. Bodies.

My Health Before My Wealth – 2 Months Completed

I joined the “fam” that moment. My health before my wealth would be my mantra. I quickly watched and listened to the workflow Chelsey had plotted out for new members, which I was the newest.

She trumpeted that a sound nutritional plan would need to be in place in order for any exercise was to begin to be effective.

She listed three: ketogenic, balanced intake, and macro tracking.

The idea of macro tracking is tedious, and aggravating. Balanced intake was not happening with me. By virtue of elimination, I chose ketogenic.

I immediately made a “non-negotiable relationship with my fitness goals”, by deciding to change my lifestyle. NOT MY DIET.

Once I focused on my health, I was then able to re-incorporate Instacart shifts that didn’t impact my fitness time.

That was only after prioritizing my weight loss over financial gain. Stay tuned for more.

‘los; out

New Year’s Eve

For someone who relishes in socializing, entertains at parties, and is an extrovert, the following will be contradictory: I dread New Year’s Eve Parties.

This time of year is usually rough for my mental space with the memory of my mother dying of cancer, and having the experience of her health deteriorating so quickly.

New Year's Eve
New Year’s Eve

The dates I’ve brought to these parties have been girlfriends are introverted or shy by nature. Even then with each of them our relationship was on the downhill slide to demise.

The culmination of it all is rather depressing.

Despite those experiences, I have one that I can think fondly on. It was the year I decided to ring in the New Year in another country to cross off a Bucket List Item.

My sister is my consummate partner-in-crime so I grumbled that I wanted to do this. She suggested Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada would be satisfactory for ‘another country’.

I readily agreed!

We planned out the evening, bounced out to execute. The Barcelona Nightclub was still in business and hosting a New Year’s Eve Party! The Howard Johnson was literally next door so we booked the one night there. That way we could drink and be merry without fear of driving.

Charrina, my sister, wanted to ensure that I had a grand time so she packed supplies for hotel pre-gaming. This time it wasn’t Captain Morgan but Sailor Jerry which if memory serves packs more of a punch.

We arrived in time to check in, pregame, dress up for the club, and roll in. At first it was slow but the party did pick up! I had no one to dance with, and after enough alcohol trips to our hotel room, it didn’t matter to me.

The Cinderella Hour – Midnight

I genuinely dislike the kiss at midnight for New Year’s. Generally the person I’m kissing I’m dispassionate about. Or the rest of the time, I’m single. I kiss no one. Even worse, I’m at a party that the couples kiss, and I arrived on my own. While it the experience only last seconds, it sets the tone for my year right then and there.

Abysmal.

Thankfully, this year (2018) I’m working until most parties have launched. I’ll actively decline invites to parties, because I do have plans for New Year’s Day in which I don’t want to be hungover from.

With any luck, and a change in my cue for my New Year’s Eve habit, perhaps I’ll have a better start to 2019 than before.

Happy New Year’s Eve, y’all!

‘los; out

Heat, Bronze and Humble Pie

After my 3rd place finish in my Yahoo Fantasy Football League for the 2nd consecutive year, it reminded me of the 1st time I ever received a bronze medal…

1986 was my last year as a #CubScout, so I wanted to leave a legacy! Every year the area packs would compete in the Pinewood Derby Contest. My Dad and I bought the standard car kit, but it was gonna be the fastest in the world. Like I said, I’ve always dreamed big.

I love my Dad. He taught me how to plan, use power tools, woodworking tools, and maybe even patience. After weeks of tireless work (it was only days!), my derby car was ready to rock. I was gonna win it all.

Thankfully it was race day!

We drove to the Pinewood Derby Contest site, which was my elementary school in Mountlake Terrace. If memory serves, about 20 boys were there to race. They had set up 4-bracket, 5-car “heat” system to advance you had to win or 2nd place. My heart sunk as I saw that it wasn’t one race like my hero, Dale Earnhardt, who would race against 42 other cars on Sunday.

It was on display for everyone to see. I looked up at Dad, which he smiled back at me. After registering my car, I was given an arbitrary race number represented on the board.

Finally, it was time for my first race.

My heart was pounding so hard it threatened to leave my chest…

I picked my lane to race, and the other racers did so too. The gate dropped on the inclined race track so the pinewood derby car tore down to the finish line. I won! I frowned as I would have to keep winning, with the competition being more difficult than the previous “heat”.

After what seemed hours, it was the final heat.

I was eager to pick my lane as it was the one that kept me winning, and as competitive as I was I didn’t want someone else to ‘steal it’. My best friend, Chris Snell, myself and 2 other boys made it. Same as the other heats, the gates dropped, and our cars raced down the ramp. Chris won! Another boy was just behind, and I earned 3rd place.

I WAS PISSED!

There was a podium, which each of us were given the according medal per place: gold for 1st, silver for 2nd and bronze for 3rd. I was disgusted that I stomped off the podium in front of my Dad, marched out to our Datsun B210, sat in the passenger seat, arms akimbo, and locked the door.

[I just told this story to Charrina prior to writing it – she asked with her eyebrows raised ‘You did this in front of Dad?’]

The 5-minute drive was silent except of my piss-pour attempt at stifling my crying of angry tears. I stomped my way into the house, flung the bronze medal into my shared bedroom with my sister, and went outside with my derby car still clutched in my hand.

I sat next to our wood shelter for hours. Dad appeared around the corner with the bronze medal in his hand.

The following is absolutely vintage Charlie Bayne …

Dad: Sonny boy, why are you so mad?

Me: I didn’t win. All I got was 3rd place!

D: Yes, you did earn 3rd place. That’s great.

M: That’s bullshit! All that hard work, only to be beat in the finals. We had the best car! We should’ve won. 3rd is nothing!

D: [my Dad trying to restraint himself from being exasperated] Sonny boy, I appreciate your fire and competitive spirit. I really do. But 3rd place is still 3rd place, which is a podium finish.

Can you imagine how those 17 other boys who worked just as hard, if not harder, only to walk away from the contest with nothing?Let’s look at it this way – only 2 other boys were better than you on this day. And maybe on another day, or set of circumstances, you will be the winner. The point is, no child of mine will be a sore-loser. You congratulate the winner with a handshake, no matter what.

3rd place is something, Carlos. So please be proud [he put it back around my neck] because you learned so much with wood working, strategy and determination. However, you have some humble pie to eat. Let’s grab your coat, because we’re going to Chris’s house.

M: Tonight? Why tonight?

D: Because I said so.

He explained in the car ride to my best friend’s house what I was to do. He waited and watched in the car. I knocked on the door, Kay, his mom answered. She was surprised I was there, but I simply asked for Chris.

Chris: Hi, Los.

Me: Hi, Chris. I’m sorry I was a sore-loser this afternoon. [paused and looked over my shoulder – Dad still watching] I wanted to say congratulations, I’m glad that my best friend won today if it wasn’t me. We exchanged handshakes.

I could tell he was completely confused because he oblivious to my behavior at the Pinewood Derby.

This wouldn’t the last time I earned 3rd place in a contest – there was a photo contest at the Issaquah Pickering Place Tully’s. You guessed it, I won 3rd place. Except this time around I was super proud of my accomplishment. That … and a solid 20 years of maturity had happened.

Yahoo Fantasy Football

Finally … that brings us to today, 12/26/2018. I was first to congratulate Bryan on winning this year’s Yahoo FF. 3rd place prize money in our league is your entry fee – so I won $20. The same 20 dollars that I needed to play.

What’s my point?

Heat, Bronze and Humble Pie

My point is simple: Humble pie tastes good as long as you’re not salty.

‘los; out

Ugly Sweater Party

Y’all have it easy nowadays regarding Ugly Sweaters! I’ve seen them everywhere: Fred Meyer, Target, Wal-Mart, etc. There’s all the peripheral items too. Back in my day of parties, if you didn’t find a way, you MADE the way.

Several years ago, I received a party invite from a friend I hadn’t heard from in a minute. The invitation was for an Ugly Sweater Party during the holidays. If my memory serves, I couldn’t attend even though I had every intention to do so. Later on, I saw pictures of the party on #Facebook. It sure seemed like it was a blast. Even more glaring …

I needed a new sweater!

Ugly Sweater Party
Ugly Sweater Party

Up until this invite, I’ve never heard of purposely finding an ugly sweater to wear, let alone go to a party with others dressed as badly. So I was on a new adventure: to find the best ugly sweater ever! Six years ago ugly sweaters weren’t in high demand therefore extremely difficult to locate.

My girl at the time was a ginormous fan of discounted clothing stores such as #Goodwill, #ValueVillage, Marshall’s and T.J. Maxx. After an exhaustive store by store search, we were successful in finding an ugly sweater for each of us.

Ugly Sweater Party

Now we needed a party idea, more so than just wearing ugly sweaters.Then it dawned on me that from the various get-togethers we’ve had as the Brew Crew, we had an extensive collection of hard alcohol in our inventories. So I hosted an Ugly Sweater Party + Vodka Tasting Party.

It was brilliant! Bring your not-full bottle of alcohol, preferably vodka, and wear your ugliest sweater that you could find. In fact, the #fuglier the better! Before you know it the day of the party was upon us. I MacGyver’d a photo booth to document these knitted horrors.

Then my guests started to arrive for the Ugly Sweater Party. After I felt most of my party goers were there, I suggested to take photos in the booth before we are no longer sober enough to use the Digital SLR I had out.

And yes, I still have the photos to this day. And no, I won’t post them here.

We killed bottle after bottle of vodka. The natural progression of events was to play the many board games we had on hand. The last game was the most funny because it involved catapulting plastic monkeys into a plastic tree. The first player to make 3 hang on won the game. It didn’t take long for the monkeys to be tossed. Or then there was the game pieces – ha, ha.

And that, my friends, was my first and only Ugly Sweater Party – nowadays the market caters to this idea. I might attend one this year! I wonder where I stored that ghastly thing …

Until next time, and as always, be good like you should, and if you can’t be good, be good at what you do!

Mic drop *bOoM*

‘los; out

White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties: How I Was Tricked!

It’s that time of year again… And invariably, some host / hostess will incorrectly title their intention of their party. In my humble opinion (IMHO) there’s a GINORMOUS difference between White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties. I was tricked into thinking I was attending a workplace White Elephant Gift Party. Granted, the co-worker that invited me was a troll with #ERBF (Epic Rest B**ch Face) I was horrified to figure out it was a GIFT EXCHANGE PARTY. Basically, I fell into the trap that this troll knew how to host this kind of party when she didn’t. Here’s what happened…

White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties: How I Was Tricked!

White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties: How I Was Tricked!

Let’s start this conversation with the difference between the two parties! I’m confident there are some in the reading audience that have (and still do) confuse the ideas. The first time I ever heard of White Elephant was in 1995 at Payless Drug Store. A young lady approached me in the aisle I was replenishing with merchandise. She simply asked, “Where do you have white elephants?” I answered, “We don’t sell that here. Why do you need that, because white elephants don’t exist?” She was immediately embarrassed and quickly departed.

Even at 19 years old, I knew she was on a fool’s errand. And most likely, she was attending White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties. First of all the idiom of white elephant refers to the legend of the King of Siam. He would gift rare albino elephants to courtiers who displeased him, as they might be ruined by the animal’s upkeep costs. It’s an extravagant gift but burdensome to the recipient.

To me, White Elephant vs Gift Exchange Parties is the intention of the gift. To be funny, gaudy, or odd, versus a gift you would like to have if no one else likes it. Alternatively, a Gift Exchange Party is simply that. A minimum dollar amount (usually $20) is set, with the same rules of “stealing” and “freezing” a gift after a number of “steals”.

So ERFB tells me it’s a White Elephant Gift Party with a $10 minimum. I set out into the world of retail therapy to buy a real train wreck-y gift like something directly out of an informercial. I traveled to the nearest Wally World (i.e. Wal-Mart) I dragged along my little sister to assist. We found the “As Seen On TV” end cap in the middle of the store. To this day, I can’t remember what I purchased but it was so terrible it was funny, at least to me. Finally, it was the day of the party. The numbers were drawn for order of selecting the first gift. The person holding number one walked up to the pile of wrapped gifts as directed by rule and opened it. To my absolute horror, it was a beautiful candle set from the warehouse. I wanted to stand up, walk over, select my gift and leave for the best unexplained #micdrop and walk ever. Round after round another person would skip over my cheesy-tried-and-true-WHITE-ELEPHANT gift. My “turn” was finally up, as it seemed to take forneverness. I promptly walked up to my donated gift, unwrapped, and kept it. Thankfully, no one “stole” it either. I mean-mugged ERFB the entire “party”. What a troll for tricking me! I unintentionally made a mockery of this gift exchange. I gnashed my teeth together. I vowed to NEVER allow this to happen to me or anyone in my orbit that I care about ever again. That, and … never talking to ERFB again. So, Spaceship Earth, have you confused this issue? Were you tricked like me? Lemme know in the comments below. Until next time, be good like you should, and if you can’t be good, be good at what you do.

Mic drop *bOoM*

‘los; out

Christmas Cards Are An Endangered Species

Ever since the Digital Age started, many traditional institutions such as mailed letters have been in a state of decline. In fact, it’s extinct. Well, at least, Christmas Cards Are An Endangered Species with young adults that don’t know how to properly address an envelope. There’s an app out there available that you can mimic hand written notes, have them digitally created, then the company will complete fulfillment for a small fee. It’s called Bond. That’s right!

Christmas Cards Are An Endangered Species

Christmas Cards are  an endangered species

Christmas Cards and the family newsletter included is (was?) a time-honored tradition to divulge details of trials and tribulations and successes, too. But with the immediacy of social media of announcements, cry for help and everything else, there’s few reasons to carry on the tradition of Christmas Cards.

Right? Wrong.

I want to lead a paradigm shift back to those days of pad and pen. Not as a backlash of technology, or trying to be a #hipster, but as a re-centering of the human condition.

Connecting each soul by written word and consumed through a paper medium to complete the tactile experience. Seriously, though.

Nothing is more personal than reading a hand written note by your loved one, family or friend on folded paper. Even if the news was old, at least it’s being told to you from their perspective in their hand writing.

I remember my mother opening her address book of family and friends to send out her cards. It was a turquoise blue with brass rings. And she would tell me to put up a string so all received cards can be displayed over the mantle. This Christmas task always seemed daunting, labor intensive, and tedious.

I digress.

Besides, we’re in such a hurry nowadays, Christmas Cards are an endangered species. They are discarded in favor of the widespread reach and quickly with a tweet or a Facebook post or Instagram photo (see what I did there?)

I’m gonna challenge myself to return to the days when I painstakingly wrote a personalized message in each person’s card and hand wrote the address on the envelope. Christmas Cards are an endangered species which I strongly believe can be brought back to prominence. Whatcha think Spaceship Earth? Are you up to my challenge?

And no, Jib-Jab doesn’t count. Neither does Shutterfly-esque photo Christmas card with Happy Holidays on it. Until next time, be good like you should and if you can’t be good, be good at what you do!

Mic drop *bOoM*

‘los; out

Dream Job

I grew up in the 80’s therefore I identify myself with the Generation X group. So my parenting, coaching and societal conditioning all pointed towards seeking an education and/or training for my greatest strengths and interests to “land my Dream Job”.

Well at the awesome age of 42 – I have not obtained that necessary education and training beyond 2 year college degree. I didn’t pay an institution to receive this or have a expensive piece of paper that has a “degree” on it stating that I earned it.

Never felt an overwhelming need for it. To me, it seemed silly.

In addition, I don’t possess a God-given talent that Americans are willing to pay for, as in sports, art, music, or other.

Despite this, I am a tax-paying, law abiding, somewhat happy, healthy, productive member of American society. I say somewhat because I’m not holistically happy and content in the work realm. I never have. Er, rather I have yet to feel that way.

Each and every job I’ve ever held, at some point, I’m asked: “Los, why are you here?”

I’m confused. I reply, “What do you mean? This is my job, it’s what I was hired to do.”

‘They’ will quip, “I understand that, but you don’t belong here.”

The first time I’ve had this conversation I was hurt. I have integrity, determination, a grateful attitude, and always seeking ways to improve myself or the results I produce.

But that’s the rub. “They” are speaking about the intangible. I’m a man that’s not in the correct time or place.

The reason why I’m not is simple: it’s not my Dream Job. What is my Dream Job? Up until today, I’ve searching for it.

I’ve built myself a life that most would be content with. I have job security with a company that is progressive, I purchased a house that’s being developed into a home with love and attention, and network of friends and family where I feel loved, and cherish, and at the very least I have a positive impact on my interactions with anyone.

Yet?

It’s still not enough. Why, you ask? Because it’s not my Dream Job. Again, as I said, I haven’t found it. Today, after speaking with a relative stranger, I realized I have no Dream Job.

Dream Job
Dream Job

That’s right – it simply doesn’t exist. At least for me. What I’m doing currently is surviving. I’m counting my days towards access to my 401(k) at the early age of 59 1/2. I just don’t think I was put on this planet to commute back and forth at a job, only to pay bills, try to eek out a life, retire and then die within 5 years of retirement.

That’s not right – again, at least for me.

So if I’m saying there’s no Dream Job for me, in addition what I’m doing is only surviving, what are my next steps?

With my new, self-proclaimed business consultant, I was asked this morning, “What would your Dream Job or business look like if you had to describe to me?”

And for the past 509 words, you know I’m not a loss for words to deliver my message. I couldn’t answer her inane question.

I joked, “I’m story teller. In any medium I dive into whether it’s writing, photography, videography, or in-person I seek to deliver a message through helpful, relevant information delicately blended with my anecdotes, experiences, and thoughts. I would love do that daily, yet get paid to do it.”

Her reply is succinct, but resonated with me, “Let’s work on that.”

I continued to joke as an automatic self-defense mechanism, “Could you imagine that? I’m interviewed for a #TEDtalks segment, or be something like Tony Robbins.”

“As a matter of fact,” she paused, “that’s exactly what I had in mind. You have that potential. That je ne sai quoi as you said to me earlier.”

We eventually hung up with the agreement that will be speaking on a regular basis. As I sat there in a comfy chair at the local Starbucks, I started thinking.

Since I don’t have an ideal job, because I stated before working someone else or a large institution doesn’t seem to be my best fit, what would be an ideal day for me? What would an ideal week? A year? A decade?

The key to most American business is duplication and scalability. Can you duplicate yourself, and your vision? Furthermore, can you expand it without it collapsing on itself. For example, the very damn Starbucks I was sitting in.

The corporation figured how to successfully duplicate itself, and expand globally.

In the same conversation, I joked with Catherine, “Instead of having to drag myself outta bed, drive to this coffeehouse, and get my own coffee, I dream that a nice personal assistant named Ashley/Brittany/Lindsey would bring me French press coffee, and an itinerary of tasks that I should be completing. Just like Tony Stark, minus the alcoholism, of course.”

My ideal day would be:

  • Waking up without an alarm
  • Working out
  • Having a sensible breakfast
  • Performing an outdoor activity such as working on my house, or playing geocaching
  • Consuming a keto-based lunch
  • Interacting with friends and/or family a positive way with a phone call or in-person meeting
  • Continue to work on projects that make noise or require interacting with other humans
  • Cooking, and creating a dinner that’s nutritious and delicious
  • Walk into my home office, and fire up my computer to work until bed time

My ideal week would be:

  • 2-4 days of my ideal day
  • 2-3 days of self care

My ideal year would be:

  • 40-45 weeks of my ideal weeks
  • 15-17 weeks of traveling the world learning new ways to better shape my ideal day which is the building block to this vision

My ideal decade would be:

  • 1-7 years of focused work on projects
  • 3 years of self-care whether that be relaxation, or perceived relaxation, and/or fun

That seems to me to be my Dream Job. Who knows, it could be my nightmare.

Keep digging, as always,

‘los

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