I often tell people that I'm a two-trick pony, and as tricks go, they're not bad. I can do the music thing, and I can do the teaching thing. And I'm working on the writing thing, although I don't know if I dare count that as a 'trick' just yet. Maybe a "trick-ette". ("Tricklet"?)
But of course, I'm just being modest. I have loads and loads of tricks. Like the "going a full week without cooking a meal" trick. Or the"ignoring the laundry until it becomes sentient and drags itself out to the pool, beating itself clean against a deck chair" trick. Or, my personal favorite, the "making an entire bag of chocolate chips disappear while watching 'Law and Order: SVU'" trick. That one earned me my first Tony.
But in response to the absolute gaggle of inquisitors gushing in tones of unbridled admiration, "Gosh, DeNae, is there anything you can't do?" I humbly offer for your perusal the admittedly short list of jobs I could never master, no matter how much training or money or abuse you lobbed at me.
These aren't in the category of , "Eww, ick, I totally couldn't do that," which I've heard plenty of times in my illustrious career as a stay-at-home-mom, and to which I have found it best to just place my hand gently on the speaker's arm and say, "I know, dear. You really couldn't. Maybe if you took a class or something first?"
No, these jobs fall into the category of "Physiologically, Psychologically, or Gravitationally Impossible", and my hat's off to those folks who make it all look so easy.
Job #1: Working the drive-up window at McDonald's. For the life of me, I can't figure out how those kids manage to take an order, ring it into the machine, and tell you what you'll have to pay ("that will be everything in your wallet plus your dog at the first window, please") while simultaneously collecting the pay from the customer three cars ahead of you, making change, putting the coins on top of the bills so they all fall off onto the driveway in a merry cascade o' quarters, and instructing you to "pull forward to the second window" in case you had decided to claim squatter's rights to that little patch of pavement and settle down and raise a family. I just don't have the multi-tasking skills.
Job #2: Hairdresser. I am particularly mystified by a hairdresser's ability to do that thing with the round brush and the barrel of the hair dryer where she takes a patch of your hair and switches it back and forth between the brush and the dryer. Brush. Dryer. Brush. Dryer. And then she gently lays a perfectly dried, subtly curled lock against your shoulder and repeats the whole process with the next patch.
I tried this on my daughter. Once. This is filed in the annals of family lore under "The Time We Discovered the Air Intake Fan".
Job #3: Doing anything in a bank, including making a deposit or robbing the place. Now, if you read this post, you may have divined that at the time I faked a broken leg to get out of going to work, I was, in fact, working for a bank. Suffice to say, when the auditors came that year, they discovered that the only day in which all of the teller drawers and the vaults and even the HonoRac Self-Vending Candy Box were in complete balance was the day I was home tending to my 'injuries'. All I have to do is drive past a bank, and their systems lose their poor little computing minds and transfer all the assets on record to exiled Nigerian royalty. It's my super-power.
Job #4: Driving a mail truck. The problem here is twofold: First, I am notoriously bad at judging distances. "How far away is that mountain?" you may ask. And I'll squint my eyes and say, "Hmm....about....three and a half inches." So there isn't a mailbox on earth that would have a chance against my depth perception.
The second problem is, I'm pretty sure that driving with the steering wheel on the wrong side would have me speaking with a put-on British accent within a week, and I don't care who you are, that's just pretentious.
Finally, Job #5: Piano teacher. Hoo-boy, totally couldn't handle that gig! Anyone negligent enough to subject their child to thirty minutes of music instruction at my hands would just be asking for a kid probation officers call "nothin' but trouble". Between my tin ear and my tendency to nap or eat or, on at least one occasion, shave my legs during a lesson, there just isn't a worse job in the world for me than.....
.....hang on. I need to check something.
(Honey, c'mere. What's that thing I do for five hours every afternoon and have done for 28 count 'em twenty-eight years and even went to college to get all credentialled up and stuff? Really? You're sure I'm not an accountant or something?)
...heh, heh. Never mind.