Thursday, December 9, 2010

"When I grow up..."

Most kids, when asked what they want to be when they grow up, answer something to the tune of, "a doctor," or "a firefighter," or "a lawyer!"

Should I add here that I wasn't exactly your average kid?

I was also clearly graced with a mouth full of perfect teeth. 
Please, my teeth are practically begging for an orthodontist up there.

As a little one, I loved when people asked me my future plans. Because no one else wanted to be what I wanted to be.

At 3 years old: 
"Alyssa, what do you want to be when you grow up?"
"A baby cow."
Not a calf.  Don't get it confused. A baby cow.
I wonder if my parents were worried.

At 11 years old: a nail technician. 
In fourth grade, I had an obsession with painting my nails a different color ever day. When I told my parents my future plans, they laughed at me.  Apparently, a baby cow is more socially acceptable than a nail technician in the Halter house.

At 16 years old: the next Ron Burgundy.
Anchorman was and is a classic, and it was after that movie I decided I'd major in communications and become a star news anchor.  I do a mean RB impression, and I habitually warm up with "unique new york" each time I speak in public.

I wanted that to be me.
That's a joke.

As I'm sure you've figured by now, my dream changed a little. Due to the depleting need for news anchors (news is becoming more and more automated), I decided I liked PR better.
okay, so Roush Fenway wasn't my best look.
An internship with NASCAR and a couple of stints in the restaurant industry later, I think I ended up where I belong.  ;)
Cocktail waitressing at Catch 31
and then supervising Tortugas!
But now... three cheers for "Electronic Media Specialist and Communications Coordinator!"

What did you want to be when you grew up? I'll bet my baby cow and your dream career went well together. ;)


Anonymous said... [Reply]

Thanks for the nice Dad blog. And I loved my baby cow.


Anonymous said... [Reply]

That's not a baby cow. It's a cat photo-shopped as a baby cow.

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