Revisionist history

I've rewritten my résumé. After reading the previous version from beginning to end I decided the emphasis was all wrong and important information was missing.

The new résumé comes much closer to reflecting my background and who I am.

I’m not sure how the revised version will play on my LinkedIn page or Monster.com. I’m not even certain the new résumé could land me a job interview.

That’s okay. My résumé finally reflects the most important “work” I’ve ever done:

Steve Leer

Lafayette, IN

SUMMARY:

A veteran communications professional, and proud father of two children who recently left the nest. Experienced in writing and editing, and all forms of parenting, including providing basic needs, teaching right from wrong, playing an active role in their lives, listening to problems, and offering support now that they’re on their own.

    LABOR OF LOVE

WORK ^ HISTORY

February 2000-Present

    University writer/editor

·      Produce news releases and other communications materials. Won numerous awards that are collecting dust on a shelf.

     Devoted dad

·      Teamed with wife to raise our children to be honest, responsible, law-abiding citizens. Instilled in them a love of people, country and God.

My proudest career moments

·      Encouraged the children in their academic pursuits, and helped them when appropriate and/or knew enough about the subject to be a help.

·      Supported son’s violin lessons despite my possessing no musical talent. Did the same for daughter’s gymnastics interest, although barely able to differentiate a balance beam from uneven bars.

·      Formed a sports program for the children and other local homeschooled youth. Served as volunteer athletic director and coach during the program’s first five years. Attended more than 200 basketball, soccer and volleyball games, hundreds of practices and dozens of planning meetings. Program grew to more than 100 children. Received a prestigious local volunteerism award for founding the program and a more coveted honor when the children said, “Thanks dad.”

·      Saved money, helped plan and carried out annual family vacations. Took children to see Grand Canyon, Florida beaches, New York City, Philadelphia, The Bahamas (cruise), and most of the Midwest and South. Fell short of visiting California and Mount Rushmore.

·      Participated in children’s high school graduation ceremonies. Smiled broadly and choked back tears.

·      Drove daughter more than 1,000 miles to visit colleges in Virginia and Indiana. Gave son our old van to use at nearby university, feeling badly that it couldn’t have been something better.

·      Limited work-related travel, overtime and other business activities to a minimum, in order to be at home at night as often as possible. Decision likely cost potential promotions, but worth the sacrifice.

·      Gave children unconditional love, generous praise, occasional correction and the shirt off my back (to the son).

July 1989-February 2000

    Newspaper reporter/editor

·      Wrote and copy edited hundreds of news stories, and assisted in daily news planning. Won myriad awards that are but a faded memory.

    Committed father

·      Attended birth of both children. Awestruck and deeply moved.

·      Aided wife in teaching children to walk, tie shoelaces, ride a bicycle and other skills too numerous to mention.

·      Took children to church and, on various occasions, served as teacher and activity leader. Supplemented church with at-home religious training.

·      Attempted to be good role model. Sometimes failed.

·      Attempted to give children as much quality time as they wanted. Sometimes failed.

·      Gave children unconditional love, generous praise, occasional correction and the shoes off my feet (way too big for either).

SKILLS:

·      Proficient in computers and office technology.

·      Hopefully good enough at caring, protecting and nurturing children. Would like to think I exhibited trust, compassion and patience, and played no favorites.

AWARDS: Received many made of wood and metal, but all pale in comparison to the honor of being a dad.

EDUCATION: College graduate. Learned much more from fatherhood.

REFERENCES:

·      Present and former employers.

·      Two great young adults my wife and I have sent out into the world.

·       God. He knows my paternal intentions were good even when my decisions and actions were far less than perfect.

The pursuit of app-iness

If there’s an app for that, I wish someone would show me where.

A few weeks ago I became the proud owner of my first smartphone. That’s barely enough time to begin calling it a “mobile device” like all the other smartphone snobs do, but sufficient time to determine that the pocket-size computer/entertainment center can’t solve all my problems.

Granted, it comes pretty close. My phone came with about 50 preinstalled “apps” – what the snobs call applications. There are apps for news, weather, Facebook, maps, music, Twitter, photo archiving, YouTube, stock quotes and Google. I’ve got an app to turn my phone into a voice recorder, television, library, radio, camcorder and flashlight. One app lets me plan car trips which, incidentally, is an app I’ll never, EVER use while driving, just like I never send text messages when I’m behind the wheel.

Android makes living a sn-app

Cough, cough.

Another app in my smartphone lets me chart GPS coordinates, so I can no longer claim I don’t know where we keep the household cleaning supplies (in the house). Still another app allows me to rent movies from Blockbuster, which might be a challenge since practically every Blockbuster has a large “For Lease” sign in the front window.

If all those gigabytes of information designed to make life easier aren’t enough, I’ve even got an app to add more apps. A lime green R2-D2 lookalike named Android (snobs drop the “An”) has thousands available that he/she/it is peddling.

They’ve thought of almost everything. Perusing the app store I’ve come across a marijuana encyclopedia, phlebotomy certification exam study guide, do-it-yourself Catholic confessional and Morse Code trainer, for all those times I use a telegraph machine.

If I want eBooks and documents read to me I can install Katja, the Russian voice app. I can add Fake Call Me, an app that gets users “out of awkward situations by giving yourself a fake call”; or Metal Detector, which apparently converts a smartphone user into an agent of the Transportation Security Administration, minus professional groping skills. Or even download Pocket Girlfriend, although I don’t want any female – real or imagined – getting that close to my wallet and car keys.

All those apps probably meet some important need for someone else but not me. If I could find them, I would immediately download apps that perform the following functions:

* Identifies the frozen bricks of whatever they are in the refrigerator freezer. Are they beef? Ham? Venison? Jeffrey Dahmer leftovers? I’d like to be able to take phone photos of the objects in question and then have the app compare the images against a database of frozen food pictures, and offer possible matches. I might find the stuff is edible, if I’d consumed it seven years ago.

* Alerts me to gas price increases and decreases before they happen. A couple of years ago I could count on prices dropping on Tuesdays and going up on Thursdays. Now on a single day they can fall six cents a gallon when the Dow Jones Industrial Average opens sharply lower, rise nine cents a few hours later after we bomb a fruit stand in the Middle East, come down a nickel 45 minutes later on news OPEC can’t agree on oil production cutbacks and then soar a quarter for no apparent reason other than I pulled my car up to the pump. And then, as soon as I’ve paid for my gas and left, the price plummets 50 cents.

* Wakes me when I fall asleep in front of the television. Far too often these days I nod off sometime during the 11 p.m. news and wake up as Jimmy Fallon is telling the studio audience goodnight. Certainly an app could be developed that picks up clues I’m catching unintended Z’s: the senseless mumbling, the jackhammer sounds blaring from my nasal passages and the pool of saliva collecting on the armrest. The app developer could add a snooze button for business conferences.

* Stops me from making fashion faux pas. Okay, I know stripes and plaids don’t go together and that you should never wear white athletic socks with a suit. But what about a polka dot necktie with an Argyle sweater? Sneakers with an Oxford shirt? Pastels after Labor Day? Corduroy BEFORE Labor Day? I’m not expecting to walk out the front door looking like a GQ cover model – just not a cover model for Mad. As an added bonus, I’d like the app to set the record straight on how far above the top of my shoes the pants legs can go before they’re considered “flood waters.”

Steely Dan lyrics always leave me reelin'

* Translates bizarre pop music lyrics. I’ve loved Steely Dan for years, but I couldn’t explain the lyrical musings of Donald Fagen and Walter Becker if I tried. I have no idea what it is Steely Dan wants “Jack” to “do again.” If I’m “Reelin’ In The Years” do I use a fishing pole? And in “Rikki Don’t Lose That Number,” wouldn’t it make more sense to write the number down in an address book than “send it off in a letter to yourself”? Then there’s the Beatles in their later years. I’m completely lost when listening to “Come Together.” “He got joo-joo eyeball”? “He bag production/He got walrus gumboot”? “He one spinal cracker”? I need either an electronic lyric dictionary, or a hit of acid.

* Kicks me off when I spend too much time browsing the app store. 

I doubt Android would take too kindly to me limiting my app shopping. I’d probably need one more app: One that lets me remove a plate from the back of Android and then yank a few wires to disable him/her/it.

An anniversary message to my wife

Happy anniversary, honey. You’ve made me the luckiest guy in the world these last 26 years.

I don’t say it often enough, but I got the best end of the deal when we exchanged vows. You’re so much more than I deserve.

We’ve enjoyed a comfortable, if not spectacular, life together. Two kids, a mortgage and memories of special times shared. It’s better than many get to experience but, I must admit, not quite the Camelot I envisioned the moment I said, “I do.”

Steve and Margie Leer then...

When I walked you down the aisle as mister and missus that first time, I was ready to conquer the world and then hand it to you on a silver platter. I thought I’d be Ward Cleaver, Jim Anderson and Mike Brady all rolled into one.

Boy, was I wrong. Reality and human foibles soon set in, and that knight on a white steed I was sure I’d become looked more like a migrant on a donkey.

What I wanted to be and do for you didn’t turn out exactly as planned, but you let me know it was all right, anyway:

I wanted to give you the moon and stars. You were content with a three-bedroom home on a tiny piece of property in the Midwest.

I wanted to climb the career ladder so you would be proud of me. You were happy to be stuck with an average guy who works an average job for average pay.

I wanted to be a hopeless romantic who swept you off your feet every day with roses, chocolates and whispered sweet nothings. You were satisfied with a daily embrace, a quick kiss at the front door and a mumbled “I love you” seconds before snoring.

I wanted to make all the right decisions so you’d never have a moment of worry. You accepted a man who often chose unwisely, even after carefully considering all the options.

I wanted to say funny things so you’d laugh whenever we were together. You smiled at a lot of poor attempts at humor.

I wanted to compliment you morning, noon and night on your inner and outer beauty. You settled for occasional praise from a well-intentioned, but forgetful, fellow.

I wanted to read you poetry and sing you love songs. You heard me go through the bills and grumble when they were too high, and understood that’s just how I am.

...and now

I wanted to whisk you to faraway places like Paris, Rome and Rio de Janeiro. You made the best of vacation budgets that usually got us only as far as Florida.

I wanted to exude confidence, bravery and strength, so you’d feel secure with me. You never wavered in your devotion to a guy who routinely battled self-doubt, fear and weakness.

I wanted to write a “they lived happily ever after” ending to our story. You were fine with bliss but more interested in commitment.

I wanted to be the ideal husband, providing you the best of everything. You recognized that no one can measure up to the ideal, and that doing my best was good enough.

In short, I wanted you to be my wife then, now and always. And you? You wanted the same thing.

Looking back on it now, that’s all I ever should have wanted. Thanks for showing me the way.

I love you.

Ben there, done that to the economy

Our pitiful economy has me waxing poetic. With apologies to Dr. Seuss, I present my own interpretation of Green Eggs and Ham.

In honor of bumbling Federal Reserve Chairman Ben Bernanke, here’s Nest Eggs and Clams:

That Bernanke-I-am!

That Bernanke-I-am!

I do not like that Bernanke-I-am!

Don’t you like nest eggs and clams?

“I don’t like prosperity – that’s how I am.”

Would you like another bull market?

Would you like a new Lexus and a place to park it?

“I would not like a stock rally to occur.

“And I don’t need a car – I’ve got a chauffeur.

“I do not like this Dow Jones sham.

“I do not like it, ’cause Bernanke-I-am.”

Ben is rarely on the money 

Would you like to raise interest rates above zero?

Would you like to be a saver’s hero?

“I do not like 1 percent interest rates.

“I do not like them in the 50 states.”

Would you like a government spending cut?

Would you? Could you? Feel it in your gut?

“I would not, could not, I must confess.

“I might have to stop my printing press.”

A pain! A pain!

A pain! A pain!

Could you, would you, stop being a pain?

“Not a dollar with value! Not a good word to wow you!

“Not a gold standard considered! Let me be insane!

“I would not, could not, stop quantitative easing.

“I could not, would not, stop Central Bank sleazing.

“I will not slow my T-bill buys.

“I will not encourage free enterprise.

“I will not worry if stock prices fall.

“I will not debate policy with Ron Paul.

“I do not like sound money, so scram!

“I don’t like much, since Bernanke-I-am.”

You do not like capitalism. You’ve got nerve.

Is there any good you do at the Federal Reserve?

“Say! I do one good thing – it’s true!

“There IS something worthwhile that I do!

“Were it not for my prominent position, you see,

“They’d have nothing to talk about at CNBC!”

The heat is on

It’s hot outside!

(How hot is it?)

It’s so hot that…

…the fiddler on the roof took his act to the penthouse pool.

…NFL players are locking themselves out of training camp.

…you’ll get slapped by a pickle for calling it “cool as a cucumber."

…Donna Summer is singing, “Lookin’ for some hot stuff baby this evenin.’ I need some hot stuff baby...oh, forget it, I’m going inside where it’s cool.”

Who let the dog days of summer out?

…the Good Humor man doesn’t even find it funny.

…lobsters would just as soon stay in the pot of boiling water.

…death row inmates aren’t being sent to the electric chair. They’re

being sent to the exercise yard instead.

…“America’s Got Talent” was won by a guy with a Super Soaker.

…Captain America turned his shield into a wok.

…weather forecasts now come with a McDonald’s coffee cup warning.

…sports fans are doing a modified, seated form of the wave called the low tide.

…drug addicts are snorting Freon.

...rapper Ice-T had to drop the “Ice” from his name.

…Civil War reenactors are staging the Battle of the Ole Naked Swimmin’ Hole, which never actually happened.

…truck drivers are pulling their trailers with convertibles.

…the president is proposing a new Cold War.

…chickens are seeking shelter in KFC buckets.

…the National Park Service has closed Mount Rushmore due to falling thousand-gallon drops of sweat.

…bank time and temperature signs have dropped the degrees and are posting “Don’t ask.”

…Burlington Coat Factory is selling two-piece thong parkas.

…Sasquatch got a crew cut.

…heat-seeking missiles can’t decide which of the 3.7 quadrillion targets to hit.

…Congress is adding a fan to the debt ceiling.

But they probably won’t get the bill passed before Aug. 2.

Fair-ness doctrine

Summers can be awfully boring in the Midwest. There’s not much to do besides watching corn grow and cows lactating.

Fortunately, we get a reprieve in July and August. We spend a week or two with a bunch of other people in a carnival atmosphere where there just happens to be lots of corn and lactating cows.

We call it a fair.

You've gotta have heart -- for now -- to eat fair food

California and Florida may have the Disney theme parks, but we here in farm country know a thing or two about amusement ourselves. In fact, long before millions of people began driving thousands of miles to magic kingdoms ruled by a round-eared rat, Midwest states already were introducing generations of Americans to the enchanted worlds of artery-blocking confections, lunch-losing rides and amateur-hour entertainment.

No need to thank us.

Fairs begin and end with eating. Remove the food vendors and the average fair could fit into an area roughly the size of Jiffy Lube.

The moment a fairgoer’s foot steps onto the fairgrounds, edible matter appears in his hands. When that is consumed, more edible matter instantly appears in its place. This continues uninterrupted until the fairgoer gets into his car to leave.

Fair foods are prepared one way, and one way only: deep-fried. No one knows exactly how this came to be, although I suspect it might have come from congressional lobbying efforts by the business development committee of the Open Heart Surgeons Association of America.

Step to the counter of any fair food vendor and you’ll hear a conversation that goes something like this:

VENDOR: Can I help you?

FAIRGOER: Yes. I’d like a deep-fried alpaca burger with chocolate-dipped bacon, molasses-soaked tomatoes and jelly bean-topped pickles; a deep-fried Fig Newton on a stick; and a large deep-fried Red Bull. Oh, and can I get the burger in a deep-fried wrapper and could you put it in a deep-fried bag?

VENDOR: Sure. Would you like the burger between two glazed doughnuts?

FAIRGOER: Are you kidding?!? That’s GROSS!!!

While it is true that fair rides are nowhere as sophisticated as Disney’s least high-tech attraction, it doesn’t cost a hundred bucks plus parking to spend the day spinning in a creaky Tilt-a-Whirl. You need only a 50-cent ride ticket. Or 10.

What fair rides lack in technological flair they more than make up in fright. Not because of the rides themselves, but because of the ride operators.

Carnies take you for a ride, and hopefully nothing else

Carnies are scary people with leathery tans, unpleasant aromas and half-smoked cigarettes stuck between their lips. They look like the same people who just days earlier were picking up garbage along the highway as part of a prison work release program. Now these same people are responsible for the lives of 8-year-olds on rides like the mini-motorcycles, which is one of the most dangerous of all midway attractions due to the fact that the motorcycles are equipped with annoying buzzers that the kids press the entire ride, pushing the carnie to the edge of serial killer.

Ride lengths vary greatly at fairs. For instance, if five or more people are waiting in line for the bumper cars the carnie will flip the power switch off after 35 seconds. That’s a problem, since it takes a full 34 seconds for a rider to figure out which direction to turn the steering wheel to get the car moving forward. Conversely, if there’s no line for the Scrambler you’re probably going to be whipped into unconsciousness while the carnie goes out back to smoke a carton of Marlboros.

Then there’s fair entertainment. It comes in various forms: clogging clubs, greased watermelon races, electricity safety demonstrations and performances by Elvis impersonators who, if the King were really alive and ended his self-imposed exile, would immediately lose their jobs and cause the nation’s unemployment rate to increase another 3 percent.

Among the myriad entertainment options, fairs could not exist without the Big Four: the queen contest, 4-H projects, livestock showing and tractors.

Everybody within the fairgrounds attends the queen contest except the carnies, who use the opportunity while no one’s around to switch from tobacco to marijuana. Hundreds of people pack into small, non-air conditioned livestock sale arenas to watch young women smile, say hello, wear sequined formal dresses of retina-burning shininess and answer important questions like “Do you think the ‘Twilight’ movies are instilling within young people a wrong image of vampires?”

The lucky girl who becomes queen is rewarded with a crown, sash, flowers and an opportunity that she’ll treasure for a lifetime: posing for pictures with the Grand Champion sow.

No trip to a fair is complete without a walk through the 4-H exhibit building, where 4-H members display the projects they’ve spent all year working on but didn’t actually get serious about finishing until a week before the fair. There are armoires made of Popsicle sticks; 200-pound zucchinis; watercolor paintings of what are either kittens or mountain lions; and powdery substances on plates that were once believed to be cookies.

4-Hers also raise animals and bring them to fairs for everyone to see. Cows, pigs, horses, sheep, chickens, goats, ducks and rabbits by the dozens are housed in barns, so that fairgoers can stroll through and take a quick glance before turning their gaze back to the ground so as to avoid stepping in poop.

Another tractor cleared for takeoff

For many fair visitors the tractor exhibit is a must-see. Farmers from near and far bring their antique machines to the fairgrounds in what could be described as the agricultural version of a classic car show. To the casual observer, the whole collection might look like the same tractor: two big back tires, two little front tires, an uncomfortable seat, and painted green. But to those in the know, the tractors could not be more dissimilar: two big back tires, two little front tires, uncomfortable seats, painted green and built in 1939. And that one in 1940. And the one over there in 1945.

Newer models compete in the fair tractor pull. Well, we Midwesterners assume they are newer since we've never seen anything like them on a farm. We also assume the tractors are capable of flight, given that they are long, sleek, jet engine-powered vehicles that reach for the sky while dragging 14,000 pounds of concrete blocks behind them.

We assume something else, too: That if the tractor wasn’t chained to all that weight it just might chart a course due southeast.

Right to Disney World.

Cursive, foiled again!

I have a confession to make. I’m a card-carrying member of Cursive Writers Anonymous. I’ve been in recovery since, oh, about junior high.

From the day teachers didn’t care whether I turned in papers in cursive or printed letters I’ve been phasing out the former from my skill set. Except when I’m required to provide a signature, which is just a corrupted version of cursive that isn’t supposed to be legible, anyway – ask any doctor or professional athlete – I’m strictly a print man.

Cursive was a write of passage

Cursive has never felt right to me. Cursive is beauty and art; print is plainness and functionality. And in the handwriting universe I’m less Monet and more Dogs Playing Poker.

Besides, Indiana is writing cursive off. Why shouldn’t I?

This past spring the Indiana Department of Education announced that it would no longer require schools to teach cursive, so that more time can be spent on typing instruction. More than 40 other states are ditching cursive for the keyboard, as well.

I’m not sure what I think about eliminating cursive from school curriculum. All I know is cursive never worked for me.

I remember those long, painful penmanship classes, where we started by tracing cursive letters and then moved to writing on wide-lined paper with dotted lines. Everything about that exercise set me up for failure: pencils as big around as storm sewer pipes; confusing rules about which parts of letters touch the top line and which parts go only as far as the dotted line; capital letters which look nothing at all like their printed equivalents; and sitting beside the girl in class whose cursive writing could be displayed in the National Archives next to the Declaration of Independence.

Whether they actually believed they could turn me into John Hancock or just wanted to get me to a C grade so they could pass me on to the schmo in the next class, my teachers agonized over my cursive writing.

“Steve, that’s not a capital F. That’s a capital T,” a teacher would say. “Do you know what you did wrong?”

“I didn’t print?” I’d say. Not really, but I wanted to.

“No, Miss Wallflower. Can you tell me?”

“Of course, Steve. You forgot to cross the F in the middle. Try to remember that next time, all right?”

“Okay, Miss Wallflower,” I’d answer, making a mental note to never again start a sentence with a F or T.

Eventually, I was handed off from teacher to teacher enough times that I reached the grade level where we traded the wide-lined paper for thin-lined notebook paper. It was a terrifying experience. I felt like a New York City apartment dweller dropped into the middle of an Amazon rainforest. Worse yet, we laid our pencils aside and picked up ink pens.

No more erasers?!? How was I going to expunge my numerous penmanship errors? I couldn’t rely on ink erasers – a satanic invention if ever there was one – because I discovered early on that they were of no use. After minutes of rubbing the grayish wedge against the page, disaster would strike. The moment ink began to disappear the eraser would tear through the paper, leaving me to hand in an assignment that was 30 percent wood pulp and 70 percent Scotch tape.

My handwriting analysis: It stinks

Over time I chose the alternative. I covered my mistakes in a thick layer of ink and accepted the consequences for failing to turn in a “clean” paper.

By high school my teachers ran up a white flag, allowing me to print all my assignments. Then, as a sophomore, I took a typing class, where I was introduced to Wite-Out – a heavenly invention if ever there was one. Years later the manual typewriter was replaced by the word processor and then the personal computer, which rendered corrective tape and liquid obsolete. I had arrived at the throne of God.

Today I’m about as far removed from cursive writing as Lindsey Lohan is from The Parent Trap. The photo accompanying this blog might be the most cursive writing I’ve done since George Bush was president (the first one), and it only took me 10 minutes and a Google search on what cursive letters look like.

So THAT’S a capital Q in cursive? And I thought I was writing the number 2.