Monday, April 4, 2011

To Dream the Impossible Dream

Hey, kids!  Difficult to believe I haven't posted in over two weeks. 

Okay, difficult for me, perhaps.  I know, however, that I've had these gaps before.  You've heard me mention before that I have no concept of the passage of time, and oh, how it's flying.  Of course, the last two point five weeks have held lots of excitement and little miracles.  I became an uncle on St. Patrick's Day.  Sure, I had nieces, my brother-in-law's children, but this is my sister's first and she's adorable.

Last weekend?  Our daughter gave went into labor and gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in less time than it takes us to drive from here to Wisconsin.  Three hours less, to be exact.  He was so brand-spankin'-new when I held him for the first time, and he's perfect.  I'm a proud grampa, can you tell?

This is not why you're here, though, dear reader.  I'm just making excuses to lengthen the post.  Think I ever had problems meeting those word-count requirements in school?

I had a dream the other night where I was working. This isn't unusual for me, for my job to creep into my REM-time. (Or when I'm sleeping, exhausted from my interpretive dance of 'Shiny Happy People'.)

But this was different, as it wasn't MY job, but instead a fabulous new opportunity. I was working at Waffle House.

I love the Waffle House. I take unabashed pride in my adoration for La Casa de Waffles. Breakfast, 24 hours a day. Seven days a week. Fifty-two weeks a year. Several years back, Lori and I celebrated Christmas Eve at the Waffle House. We took friends and family there, like it was some unholy mecca for all things waffled and delicious.

My dream gave me unlimited access to the biggest Waffle House I'd ever seen, or at least unlimited access to the parts I've already seen as a customer. Giant griddles, kettles of grits and gravy, waffle makers, it just makes me want to call out: "Mark: drop two, scattered, smothered covered, three scrambled raisin. Plate." I don't know just what I'm saying, I'm probably getting cheese and onions on my waffle and a raisin omelette, but hey, it's my dream and I'm ordering properly.

 Strange the pleasure I was able to take in wiping tiny fingerprints from the glass doors, in washing dishes and scraping grills, simply to be a part of the grand Waffle House experience (which I envision like the Jimi Hendrix Experience, with more carbs and less acid.)

Sure, it's an odd 'dream' job.  And I don't think I have the ability to learn a brand new vocabulary at this point in my life.  But I can dream.

We are bereft of waffle-y convenience here in the O-Hi-O, they exist but they're not at impulse distance anymore.  In my quest to make dreams a reality, I found that one cannot purchase a Waffle House franchise.  Every Waffle House in the world is still owned by the family of the original founders.  And there's no indication that they might consider changing that.  Good for them.

How about you, dear reader?  Dream job?  Amusing waffle-related anecdote?  Discuss.


Bev said...

I've never once been to a Waffle House. *hanging head in shame*

Dream job? Doing nothing, of course, and getting paid 6 figures to do so would be excellent. Barring that, I'd like to stay home in my pajamas and write books and essays for a living. Is that so wrong?

Frank Irwin said...

I like waffles.

My dream job would be getting paid to watch Bev, in her pajamas, writing books and essays.

Elliott said...

I was on board with Bev, and of course, I wish you all the best in that effort. (Hey kids! Pre-order Bev's first book HERE!)

However, if it included all-I-can-eat waffles, I'd sign up for Frank's dream job, right out.

Be nice and share!

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