The Florence Foster Jenkins of the Paint Color, Street Name and Concert Piano World

Today, over at the Pie, June asked us, her faithful and devoted readers, what would be our Dream Jobs, if we had enough money to be able to realize our Dream Jobs. 

Quite a few readers wanted to do Good Deeds, helping others in need.  

Yeah, that's not me.

Not that I wouldn't WANT to help the Underprivileged and Abused because I'm all about Helping Others, when I have the time and inclination, but it's NOT my "Dream Job."  

Because who is shallow, selfish and self-centered?  This gal (points to self).

No, seriously, for me, a Dream Job would be the person who comes up with Paint Colors and Street Names.  A Professional Paint-Color-and-Street-Namer.

A Noble Profession.

I have seen the paint chips at the local Lowe's Depot of Home Improvement Stuff and lemme tell you, some of the paint color names are just a bit WTF.  I know *I* could do a much better job of naming paint colors:  "Whispering Dawn" would be a lovely shade of pinkish yellow and NOT a section of the local cemetery.  "Kaylyn's Floor" would be the color of food left to rot under a bed.  Uh, I mean, a greenish-bluish-brownish color.  Yeah.  That's it.

As for street names, nothing that will take up the entire length of an envelope just to get the whole street name on it:  Avenida El Camino Del Rey Mar Vista in the lovely town of Nuestra Senora La Reina de Los Angeles.

Bob Road.  Dead Squirrel Lane.  Scenic Route.  Anchors-A Way.  THESE are good street names.

Primrose Lane is another good one.  Lots of families on Primrose Lane.

Okay, another Dream Job I have is to be a Pianist, playing in department stores, piano bars, concert halls.  Which would be great except for one small, insignificant detail:

I don't know how to play the piano.

I must be one of the very few people in the world who begged to take piano lessons as a kid.  BEGGED.  And pleaded.

And was denied.  Bitter Moment #31 in the List of Kelly's Bitter Moments.  Of which there are many.  I think I'm up into the four figures.

One of the flimsy reasons I was given was that we didn't have a piano.

What EVER.

One of our neighbors had a Baby Grand piano whenever they would play, I would stand in front of their house, listening and wishing I could play like that.

When I'd go to someone's house who had a piano, I would itch to be able to play it.  Sometimes, I'd be indulged and allowed to plink away, picking out tunes by ear.

If I was rich and could indulge my Dream Job fantasy, I'd be like 

Florence Foster Jenkins and say "Screw the critics!" and I'd give piano recitals despite my inability to play.

And there would be no more Bitter Moments.