megfowler.com

I do not have a broad skill set.

Well, I am a broad. And my ass is rather broad. I actually enjoy broad beans, though they taste a little… papery? Pasty? Do you know what I mean? That kind of “meh bleh bleh” tongue-tutting sensation?

Right, right… skill set.

I’m good at a FEW things, but not a lot of things. And I’m actually HORRIBLE at things I can’t do. And when I say horrible, I mean disastrous on a level where people might be in danger and small animals WILL explode.

These are my primary skills:

Writing: I am a fairly proficient writer, though I tend to bend grammatical rules and have a somewhat “precious” sort of structure in my personal work.

In other words? Yeah. That. Exactly.

Cooking: I am a fairly decent cook, though I have not really tackled complex tasks like the baking of bread or dramatic sauces which threaten to erupt into flames if you leave them anywhere near the stove after the butter clarifies.

What?

I also like salt too much, and tend to add lemon where lemon should not go.

(Like my eye. That HURTS.)

Singing: I am a fairly decent singer, though mostly when I am singing quietly along with the radio or iTunes. Then I can blend in to the studio production and somehow convince myself that I hit that note right along with Stevie Wonder, thank you very much.

When I sing on my own, I can generally carry a tune and stay on key, though my actual tone might be described as… unremarkable. That said, I will never offend anyone with my singing voice. My speaking voice has that covered juuuuust fine.

Boyfixing: I am a fairly decent consultant on all things fashion and cosmetic for men, partly because I was raised by a man who takes such things seriously, and partly because I used to comb the pages of GQ looking for Ralph Lauren ads to put up in my high school locker.

(Is it odd that Ralph Lauren models look 17 to me now? Did they always look 17, and I didn’t notice because I was 17?)

I’ve picked out skin care regimens for the boys in my life, stolen drawerfuls of white socks, counseled on the length of pants, and demonstrated that ironing need not be the most arduous and horrible task on earth. And the objects of my counsel? Dudes get MARRIED and EVERYTHING.

(Not to me, yet, mind you… but I kinda have this fantasy of falling in love with a guy who arrives in my life with his own bottle of moisturizer and tanned feet. Purrrrr.)

Cleaning: I’m a REALLY good cleaner. I REALLY like cleaning. Cleaning may be the thing I am best at in the whole world, but I’m radically inconsistent about organization. That’s why my room swirls into chaos a good portion of the time (which just seems ironic, don’t you think? Not like rain on your wedding day, though.)

And I only clean what I want to clean. But man, it’s clean when I clean it.

Googling: I’m a very proficient Googler. I can find you anything you want, if it actually exists on the Web. Is this a gift? I’m not sure. But it comes in handy when you want to look informed on really obscure topics. Which brings us to…

Trivia…ing: Ohhh, trivia. How I love you, Trivia. And remember you. And win at games that require extensive knowledge of you. My brain is like a steel trap for information that can only be used in competition. I have dreams of going on Jeopardy. But they’d likely just ask something about famous mathematicians, and I’d be hooped (see “Math” later in this post.)

Kidding: I’m pretty damn good with children, too. But that’s as much due to years of experience as any natural ability. Though I am the… Baby Whisperer.

Finally: fairly okay dancer; helpful with wedding details; killer at remembering song lyrics; possessed of fine penmanship; shows some talent for doodling; and yes… is quite the confident public speaker.

But that’s where things become somewhat tragic.

I kinda suck at everything else.

What is everything else, you ask?

Everything else:

Putting together Ikea furniture: It’s almost as though I lose about 100 IQ points when someone hands me an Allan key. The diagrams are just as obscure to me as the product names. It doesn’t matter if it’s just a shelf you screw into a wall, really.

IT’S NOT GONNA HAPPEN.

I have been mocked about this more than almost any other deficiency in my life (except for the following one), mostly because I literally begin to drool when I see that my new Glinglefarb has NOT come pre-assembled.

Driving: Okay. I’m outing myself here and now, and you can freak out about it in the comments and ask all sorts of awkward questions like DO YOU HAVE ARMS and ARE YOU A FREAK and WHY FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD AND HOLY and MAN, I’D HAVE KILLED MYSELF IN HIGH SCHOOL IF I WAS LIKE YOU.

I don’t have a driver’s license.

Don’t say I don’t open up to you on my blog.

NO, it was not taken away, YES, I have had my learner’s several times, NO, I have no emotional or physical difficulties that prevent me from driving, and YES, I have driven many times (Standard, no less!) … I just never got around to sealing the deal.

Now I don’t really have anyone to teach me, or the time or money for lessons, so it’s getting a bit ridiculous. Before, I could justify it by saying I was either too poor to have a car and pay for parking, or that I was being all environmentally responsible by opting out. I just look dorky at this point, though.

I don’t beg for rides or skip chipping in for gas money or mooch off people, either. NEVER!

But I do acknowledge my tragic mutant status. Let’s move on.

Math: Wow, am I bad at math. If I were any worse at math, I’d be the Universal Enemy of All Numbers and Formulae. Calculators would combust in my presence. Pocket protectors would melt and fuse to nerdish skin.

I can do all the basics in my head rather quickly, but once you get past what we covered in the eighth grade, I turn bright red and wish for my own demise.

I literally wrote an essay to pass Math 12. I don’t even want to talk about it.

Line Dancing: IT MAKES NO DAMN SENSE.

Discipline: Ayyyiieeee, do I lack discipline. This is an unusual state for someone as obsessive and self-critical as I am, but HEY! I like to be different and unpredictable, just like the weather in Vancouver (see previous post.)

Granted, I can force myself to do any number of things when I put my mind to them, and I am a hard worker. Really. I work my ass off.

But when it comes to things like exercising? Yeah. See you over there at the couch, yo. Sigh. Can you bring me my yoga ball? I LIKE TO PUT MY FEET UP ON IT.

Microsoft Excel: I used to think I was proficient. Now I know I’m just indolent.

Relationships: Yep, I suck at these. The romantic kind, that is. And it’s not because I like to change men (I really only steal the socks of my platonic friends), but mostly because I’m so physically insecure that I don’t believe they’re interested in me.

Which works, because they’re generally interested in my best friend, or someone slightly to my left.

I have a good personality, I swear. And I don’t smell bad. But I am also built like a dreidel. A dreidel with odd teeth and flipper arms.

Spin me!

What?

Okay, okay, it’s not just how I look. I’m also fairly blunt-force when it comes to having opinions and expecting common decency out of people. And I hate it when people don’t tip enough or are rude to service workers or make statements about how “girls are” or how “women are”, especially if said statements relate to instability or emotionalism or materialism.

Ahem.

Ass kicker? Is that the right term for a girl like me?

I’m also one of the most loving and devoted and ridiculously accepting girlfriends you’ll ever come across, but meh.

As Gloria Estefan once said, “Woooords get in the waaaaaaaay…”

And that’s what we call a Blog Entry You Can’t Ever Truly Come Back From.

Let’s hear it for disclosure (something I am both really good at, and REALLY bad at.)

(Just SUPER good today. Thank you, non-drowsy antihistamines!)