25 Years in the Making: An Inconvenient Gift

 

This is one of Katie's favorite pics from our wedding. Sneaking a kiss, so stealthily. 

Katie and I are celebrating 25 years of marriage today. Some of you may think that sounds like I'm bragging. [I'm not.] Some of you might be condescendingly thinking, “Hmph, that’s cute. Tell me when you get to 40 years.” [I will.] Some of you may wonder what 25 years looks like. Well, I’ll tell you. At least, I’ll tell you a little of what our 25 years looks like. 

There’s the emotional shorthand of being able to skim or completely skip details because we already know the history, backstory, opinions, and feelings about sooooo many things. There are the millions of inside jokes, quips, and idioms … and for some of them, you really can’t remember how they began, you just know they’re a thing you say to each other. There are the hundreds of subtle, non-detectable-to-the-public glances you share that indicate, “We already know our feelings about that” or “That’s not how we would do this, but whatever” or “We’ll talk about this later” or “We’ll talk about this person later” or “I’m so grateful you’re the one I’m going home with after this party.” 

• We’ve been married 25 years. A quarter of a century. That’s 9,132 days. 

• We’ve lived in 9 different houses/apartments. 

• We’ve had 8 children – all 8 with a midwife, and 7 of them at home. 

• We’ve owned six cars – three of them vans, and one of those a 12-passenger van. 

• We’ve owned one cat, two goats, a dozen chickens, one guinea pig, two mice, one rabbit, and several subpar goldfish. 

• We’ve homeschooled all of our children since 2003. 

• We’ve watched the entire series of The Office, Seinfeld, Chuck, Cheers, and Parks & Rec. [And ER, but I don’t want to talk about that.]

• Together, we’ve been to Grenada, Israel, Portugal, England, Scotland, Canada, and 40 of the 50 States. [We were supposed to be in Europe for our 25th, but COVID punched us square in the throat, instead.] 

• We’ve had careers or side-hustles in copywriting, doula work, improv/acting, public speaking, account managing, philanthropy, and sales rep’ing – with three separate stints of unemployment. 

• We’ve lived in Las Vegas, where we never thought we’d live, and in Utah, where we never thought we’d live. And we've realized we don’t want to live in California, where I grew up and always thought I’d live. 

• We’ve met and fallen in love with some of the loveliest people that we get to call our friends. 

There are a lot of memories crammed into those 9,132 days. A lot of moments. Some of them are these unremarkable moments that somehow punctuated a feeling or an impression in that instant and stayed with me. Taking the kids trick-or-treating and looking over my shoulder at Katie, standing in our doorway to hand candy out to the trick-or-treaters coming to our house – both of us loving our stations for the evening. Holding each other’s hands at concerts. Making a meal together that we’re both excited about. Or like this one time when Katie and I were watching Saturday Night Live and fell asleep, spooned on the couch. I woke up when the musical guest was performing. Katie was still asleep in my arms, our house was quiet and still, the kids all asleep in bed – and I felt this warmth come over me like a blanket. I don’t know how else to describe it – it was just a sense that everything in the world was right. I didn’t move, worried that I would disrupt this glow. I just felt grateful.

There are other specific experiences that stand out as marriage moments. Those sometimes predicable or expected life moments that you share with your partner, because you are on this path together – but they are uniquely yours, because it’s your path. When we got to honeymoon in Hawaii and it literally felt like the world paused just for us. When we hid in the bathroom at my parents’ house on Thanksgiving Day to take our first positive home pregnancy test. When we bought our first house and realized we were committing to staying in Las Vegas longer than we’d planned. When Katie had a miscarriage between Becca and Lucy. When we decided to move from Las Vegas to Utah. The moment we both knew we were done having children and cried. When my dad suddenly passed, and I’d immediately left to be with my mom, and Katie joined me three days later and we found our way into a bedroom so I could tell her about the last 72 hours and I completely came undone and was unintelligible and just sunk my head into her chest. 

Twenty-five years holds a lot of unpredictability, with the occasional plan coming to fruition. When Katie and I were dating, I knew it was different from previous relationships. I had this spiritual, visceral confidence that we could build something happy together. And that was everything to me, because I have never had the gift of “vision” – being able to see what the future could look like. I’m not that savvy or wise – especially if you’re comparing me to Katie – but from experience, I can tell you that we’ve built our life and our home on faith, laughter, compassion, and quick forgiveness. And ice cream to fill in the cracks. And I would say we have definitely built something happy. 

As one of those non-life-events that was unremarkable and extraordinary to me, I thought I’d share something that I wrote for Katie some time back and never published. Please enjoy! Or don’t, I’m not the boss of you. [But you should know that this is the only thing I got you all for our anniversary.] 

An Inconvenient Gift

Timing is a crucial ingredient for romance. 

This is what Katie tells me every time I grab her bum in the kitchen and there are one or more of our children around. (And there is always more than one around.)

Timing hasn’t always been on our side anyway. Like, since day one. The day I met Katie, I was dating someone else. The day I decided I wanted to ask her out, she was dating someone else. And I’m not kidding, on the very day I mustered up the courage to ask her out, in the precise moment I walked up to her on our college campus with concert tickets in hand and my mouth open to say the words, she turned to me and with all the excitement of someone who had just figured life out, she said, “Hey! So, guess what – I decided that I’m going to serve a mission, so I’m not going to date this entire semester!” “That’s awesome,” I said, one hundred percent certain it was the least awesome thing I had ever heard in my entire life. And I had heard a lot of bad a cappella music in college. Including an a cappella version of U2’s Mysterious Ways that still offends me. 

Fortunately for me, Katie was easily worn down. And by “worn down” I mean I waited 24 hours for her to change her mind and/or completely forget that she’d said anything. And then I asked her out – and she said ‘yes.’ 

See?! Timing!

Decades later, the struggle is still real. 

It was early evening in late October when we met up with some friends for dinner in downtown Provo. Station 22. A restaurant that is so contemporary that it gives you one of those electronic buzzers that light up and vibrate to let you know your table is ready. This means you have the convenience of cruising around downtown Provo and visiting the cute shops instead of just sitting in a crowded restaurant while everyone except you is eating and enjoying the merriment of no longer waiting for their turn to eat. Oh, red vibrating buzzers … where were you in the mid-90s?! And why didn’t you stop that a cappella group from arranging Mysterious Ways?! Or at least Enya’s Book of Days, which was also not ok. 

Katie and I wandered into a nearby store called Here, a quaint little place that, among other things, featured art from local artists. Sadly, the store has since closed, so Here is actually no longer There. I was casually browsing pithy greeting cards and Katie was thumbing through some books when we suddenly found ourselves staring at the same painting … and we both stopped moving as our hands found each other and locked. 

Right before us was this painting, by Brian Kershisnik. It’s titled This Splendid Inconvenience. 

Let me tell you something. You don’t get something that accurate without having lived it. Dear Brian, we get it. That exact moment? We get it. The trying to take advantage of those last few minutes of snuggle time, only to be interrupted … but to be interrupted by your other favorite people? Timing is indeed everything. 

And without a word between us, we both immediately welled up. 

I knew in that moment that I was going to buy that painting for Katie for Christmas. Sure, it would be the third Kershisnik painting hanging up in our home. But so what? We aren’t hurting anyone. It’s not like we arranged an a cappella version of the Pointer Sister’s Fire and made people pay money to come listen to us sing it. (You also don’t get that kind of detail without having lived it.)

I wanted to surprise Katie, so I knew I needed to keep the purchase off bank and credit card statements. So I did what every single citizen of Utah County has done at some point in their life. I donated plasma. I donated a lot of plasma. This painting wasn’t cheap. But I was so excited to surprise Katie with this painting that resonated so much with both of us. 

On the day I wondered back into Here and purchased This Splendid Inconvenience, I felt like I had just won Christmas. It was worth all the times some random teenager with weird facial hair jammed a thick needle into my unsuspecting vein and promptly forgot all about me as he or she went off to flirt with coworkers. 

Here was kind enough to giftwrap the painting for me. It was a plain brown paper, but the string was tied in some fancy way that made the whole thing look pretty. I kept it at my office, safely hidden from Katie throughout the entire season. Each day when I walked into work and saw it by my desk, I got excited all over again. 

On Christmas Eve, I brought it home from my office and hid it in my closet. I was so stealthy, you guys. Like an a cappella group who decided that now that they had your money, they were going to blindside you with their version of Suzanne Vega’s Blood Makes Noise.  

Christmas morning had exploded all over our living room, and with wrapping paper everywhere and candy already eaten for breakfast, and toys and gadgets being played with … I turned to Katie and said, “Oh, I still have my present for you.” To which she literally, physically jumped up and responded with, “And I still have mine for you! Me first!” And she ran into the other room … and came walking back in with some very familiar-looking packaging. Brown paper with decorative string. The Christmas tree lights were dim compared to the light in Katie’s face. She was so excited for me to open my present. 

I tore off the paper – and there it was, in all its glory. This Splendid Inconvenience. I stared at it, and apparently my expression was not what Katie had anticipated, because she started to coax me. “Don’t you remember it? We saw it in that little store last October! While we were waiting to go to dinner! We were, like, both emotional! Remember?!” Of course, I completely remembered. Katie went on, “I babysat for our neighbor for the last three weeks so I could have the cash to buy it without you knowing. I wanted to surprise you!” 

I looked up at her and we smiled huge at each other and I hugged her and kissed her and thanked her and gushed. I was thinking how now I didn’t have this surprise gift for her … but I also so completely loved that we were both on the same wavelength and had the same idea and made similar secret plans to surprise the other one. I retrieved her gift, and as I walked it over to her and she recognized precisely what it was, her eyes grew even bigger, and I wryly commented, “You…don’t need to open it.” 

It was this uncanny Gift of the Magi moment. 

Maybe the timing was actually perfect. 

A Proud Moment

This is my beautiful 14-year old daughter, Abbie. (She's the one without the feathers.)

Abbie and two of her cousins recently started a blog. They developed this blog to amuse just themselves, exclusively; however, when I read Abbie's current post, I decided it had to be shared (with her permission, of course). She even selected the photos all on her own. I am so proud to be her dad.

And now, I give you....Abbie's post:

"A....A Dentist."

When I was younger, I decided that there were a few occupations that I would never pursue.   Oddly enough, the main reason I didn't want to be these things was because they were all generally disliked by people.  Adults or children.  Please keep in mind that I made this list when I was about ten years old.  It's still pretty accurate.

1. A Police officer.  

This was simply because adults don't like them.  I didn't consider the fact that you could be killed almost every day at work, I simply didn't want that job because people don't like getting pulled over, or getting tickets, or going to jail.  

2. A lawyer.  

This occupation interests me more, now that I've done some debating in a class.  But at the time, I didn't want to be a lawyer because people aren't usually happy with their lawyers, unless they win the argument.  WHAT IF YOU DON'T WIN THE ARGUMENT?  Then you feel terrible for the rest of your life that you failed to help someone.

3.  A dentist.

There are very few people I know that enjoy going to the dentist.  Children or adults.  I am not one of them.  I used to hate it because I was scared.  Now I'm tough and I just hate it because it's an all-day process!  I mean, you have to wait there for, like, half an hour--or longer if your siblings go before you--and your mom fills out all the paperwork.  Oh, the paperwork.  I think that's one of the things I'm dreading when I become a mom.  Then when you finally get to go to the back, you have to do the x-rays.  I can't be the only one who hates having some giant, nasty, plastic thing in your mouth that you have to bite down on while it jabs it's way into your cheeks!  Once your done having all the areas of you mouth gouged, you get to sit in the chair.  Peace at last, right?  Wrong!  That's when you have to hold your mouth open for twenty minutes at the least, while the poke around and "count your teeth".  Need I remind you people?  I'm not four.  I thought it was pretty obvious.  They tell you about every thirty seconds to "open wide!".  Really?  I'm at the dentist.  I know what to expect.  I had my mouth open as far as it would go before you even told me to "open wider" the VERY FIRST TIME!  Then they clean your teeth with awful toothpaste.  It doesn't matter what flavor you get, it all tastes like blahgh!  Then they suck all the moisture out of your mouth and don't rinse it thoroughly so you have the grainy texture for the rest of the day.  When your finally done, your face is almost numb, you have a horrible taste for a week, and you feel like you never want to open your mouth again.

When I was younger, I had a cavity so deep that it went to my gums.  However, it never hurt or bothered me, so we left it alone.  For whatever reason, (when I was probably eight or nine) we decided it was time to pull it out.  I was beyond terrified.  I hated going to the dentist, and this was absolutely no exception.  I honestly don't remember much of the process...except for crying and possibly even screaming at one point.  I remember the dentist saying, in her sing-song voice "oh, you have such pretty earrings (I had recently gotten them pierced), are they real diamonds?" and I thought A) Again, I'm not four, so you don't have to talk like I am.  B) Real diamonds?  Really?  Even if they were, how was I supposed to know?!  and C) Do you really want me to answer that question?  Because if I do, I'll probably spray this nasty whatever-it-is right out of my mouth.  I don't think either of us wants that to happen (unless it will get the taste out of my mouth), so lets just cut the small talk and get this thing done.  It was dreadful.  The rest of the story, in fast motion, is: They put in a space maintainer that came out on Halloween.  Great dentist, right?  

So recently we went to this free dentist convention at the Las Vegas College of Dentistry, and I had my first filling.  I'm pretty proud of that.  Anyway, to make a very long story very short, I was back there, with my mouth wide open and the dentist assistant pulling my tongue and weird things and hands going in and out of my mouth, for over an hour.  It was not pleasant...to say the least.  And they always try and make you talk to them with your mouth open!  "You're so pretty!  What do you like to do?  What do you like to do in school?  What do you want to be when you grow up?  You should continue your career and then have a family when your done.  How long have you lived in Las Vegas?  (and I wish I was making this up,) Do you have a boyfriend?"  I'm surprised at how many ridiculous questions they come up with, and how I had any liquid left in my mouth!  There are only 3 upsides.  1. They only numbed a part of my mouth, so I didn't drool as much  2. It was totally free!  and 3. I hopefully don't have to go to the dentist again for a whole beautiful, closed mouth, complete feeling in my mouth,  6 months.

Carpe What, Now?

I don’t like to get on my pedestal and publicly shame people, but I feel a moral obligation to say something here. (Also, I actually do kind of like getting on my pedestal and publicly shaming people. But only if they sit silently and let me do it. I don’t like confrontation.)

As a society, we are constantly bombarded with the diatribe of “living each day as if it were your last.” Columnists, pop singers, new-age psychologists, tattoo artists…they all think they’re some kind of “made-you-think” poets with this line. But I find this philosophy to be – how do I put this delicately? – a compost pile.

Let me paint a picture for you of what would actually happen if I lived each day as if it were my last.

1. I would be fired. Because guess what – if it’s my last day alive, I’m ditching work that day. And sometime around, oh, day 2 of me still being alive but not showing up to work, my boss would probably call. “Uhm – are you coming in today?” “Sorry, Boss. I’m living each day as if it were my last. I won’t be in.” “Uh-huh. Well, ya hippy freak, to me, today IS your last day.”

2. I would weigh precisely 500 pounds. If I know it’s my last day on earth, I am eating Crunch Berries and Chocodiles for breakfast, two rib-eye sandwiches for lunch, and a Tommy’s Burger for dinner. Five pints of Haagen-Dazs for dessert. Now, that’s a dangerous way to conduct your diet for one day; but if it just so happens to not be my last day on the planet? Well, things are going to quickly get uncomfortable and, digestionally-speaking, unpleasant for me and everyone around me.

3. My family would hate me. Imagine your child or parent calling you daily and saying, “I’m sorry to tell you this – but I’m dying. These are my final hours, and I just wanted to call and tell you how much I love you. Thank you for everything you’ve ever done for me. I will miss you.” Emotional havoc ensues. Everybody is a big, weepy mess…until the next day. And the next. And the next. Then your phone call eventually receives a response like this: “There are no powers on heaven or earth that will stop me from coming over there this instant and removing any doubt that you will be taking your last breath today.”

4. Any material comforts would soon be gone – why pay my mortgage or gas bill? “Hi, Mr. Craig? This is Nevada Energy. I’m afraid we’re going to have to shut off your electricity if you don’t pay your bill today.” “Oh, do your worst. The joke’s on you! I’ll be dead tomorrow!”

5. I’d be making some powerful enemies, telling certain people exactly what I think of them. Starting with Nevada Energy, but moving on to people who set the gas prices, customer service at APX Alarm, Bill Maher, and Oprah Winfrey.

My final point to this nonsensical advice of living as if you were dying is this: H.H. Morant famously said, “Live each day like it’s your last and someday, you’ll be right.” Really H.H.? You do recognize that all those days leading up to that tragic day are days you’ll be wrong, don’t you? What kind of faulty reasoning is THAT? If you are so desperate to be right about something, why not choose an event that you would be excited about? “Live each day in your pajamas, because someday, you won’t have to go outside.” Now you’re on to something. Have Dr. Phil tattoo that on your lower back, Tim McGraw!

Part-Time Rock Star

Secretly, I have always wanted to be a rock star. I think I would be rather good at it, because, frankly, I think feeling adored and validated by thousands of screaming fans would come rather naturally to me. (It’s a gift.) I also have plenty of jeans and ratty shirts. (Another gift. It’s called "laziness.") There is really only one, bona fide snag in my plan, and that is my complete and total lack of any musical ability. 

Except when I’m sick. Anytime my health suffers, I am bequeathed with a low, sassy, baritone voice. I love it. The singing I usually reserve for the shower, the car, and one special friend, to whom I sing to whenever I leave a voice mail on her cell, suddenly becomes public. I belt it out. I let it fly. I’m loud and proud, sister!

I’ve always fantasized that, if I were to take advantage of this voice and become a part-time rock star, my producer/tour manager would always make the most of my “sick time.” As soon as he got word of my ill health, he would be on the phone, either setting up recording time for a new album, or booking some venues for a short tour. “No! We can’t wait!” Bernie would yell. “We’ve got to get this man into the studio immediately! We’ve only got a limited time before these gold pipes fade, baby!” (Also my producer/tour manager is Bernie.)

Ticket prices for the tour would be astronomical, of course, because it is such a limited engagement. Honestly, even if my loose, party lifestyle prolonged my “sick voice” (and by “party lifestyle” I mean “eating ice cream after midnight”), the most I would get is a week and half. Really. It’s not much.

Perhaps to avoid having to schedule a recording studio, I could just have my friend take my voice mail singings and record them on to a CD. Now THERE’S an idea. Voice Mail Tunes, Volume 1: The Ken Craig Collection.

A Career Announcement

So, I started a new job this month. Yes, I am no longer selling windows. They were really getting to be a pane. HA! A pane! Ya get it? A “pane?” Like, “pain,” but it’s a window pane! When you regain your composure from laughing so hard, please read on.

Anywhich, I spent the last 20 months working for Atrium Windows, and it was a wild, profanity-laden ride. Even though I wasn’t necessarily sick of my job just yet, and I was not hitherto suffering financially…I had seen the preview for this movie before, and for probably the first time in my career, I could see the writing on the wall and actually decided to do something about it before running face-first into said wall. Again.

I started searching for something new.

I didn’t know what my parameters were for a new job, but if my career path had proved anything to me, it was that “parameters” for my career were as about as crucial as “Jar Jar Binks” was to Star Wars Episode I. Throughout my life, each time I have changed jobs I haven’t just changed jobs, I have hurdled into a completely new industry. This is entertaining and romantic in nature when you are in college – the undecided, unresolved young man filled with wanderlust who just refuses to be classified and pigeonholed to a specific vocational direction. However, when you’re 35 and married, with five kids, it’s really not as cute. I hardly get any high-fives from the dudes or attention from the college babes as a result of my career zigzags.

Not sure what I should be looking for, Reality TV obviously seemed like a natural step in the right direction. But I don’t like the way my facial hair looks when I’m unshaven for even a couple of days, much less a month, so Survivor was out. Also, as the only American to have never watched an entire episode of American Idol, I felt a little hypocritical even entertaining that idea. Then, with my specific distaste for cow bladder and general distaste for Fear Factor, I knew that wasn’t my calling. And finally, with the restraining order from Howie Mandel, my impression was that Howie was saying, “Ken Craig, No Deal.” So I kept looking.

And then fate stepped in. All signs pointed down an especially unambiguous path, and in a very short time my next career move became unmistakably clear. That path? Insurance.

Did I just see you wince? Rest assured I was initially nervous about this path as well. Not just because of Groundhog Day’s own Ned Ryerson, but because of all the stereotypes and preconceived ideas that our society (myself included) has about insurance salesmen. The slick, shallow, contemptible man who used to be your friend or acquaintance but now owns a plaid suit and a hidden agenda. But then I discovered what kind of insurance I would be selling. Commercial Insurance. The kind of insurance that businesses are legally required to carry. The Necessary Evil kind of insurance. And I felt fine about that. Partly because selling commercial insurance does not require you to be obnoxious by nature, and partly because they don’t wear plaid.

How I arrived at this job is one of the greatest, most convoluted connect-the-dots experiences in my life. To sum it up in one sentence, my wife and I had dinner and a career-inquiring chat with my insurance-selling friend Dave and his wife one night and then the next week I had lunch with my insurance-selling friend Jason, who worked with Dave – and when I brought up insurance to Jason he suggested I take a serious look at getting into it, and that I should call Dave – who offered me a job when I talked to him about it, but then told me that Tim, Jason’s brother-in-law who also worked at the same agency, saw that I was looking at joining the agency and talked to Wade, the president of the agency, about having me come on as a partner with him, because his book of business was getting cumbersome and he needed help – and this position would allow me to be mentored and trained in the finer points of insurance while not having my family starve to death – a very real occupational hazard – as I tried to drum up business my first couple of years in the insurance business.

I took the job. And I’m really glad I did. There are many benefits to working at an insurance agency. Not the least of which is nobody is trying to form an alliance to kick you out of the company, and Paula Abdul rarely – rarely – shows up to critique your work.

Window Shopping for a Career

Just over a year ago I lost my job. Well, I didn’t lose it. I knew where it was. It’s just that when I went there, there was this new guy doing it. Actually, that’s not true either. I was working at a public relations firm that is now defunct. It was called Ballard Communications, but apparently what we were communicating was “you should use another PR firm.” I was basically the last one to board the Titanic, so I was the first one thrown off…but they all shortly followed, including Celine Dion. Her heart may go on, but her future at Ballard Communications came to an abrupt end.

Losing this job was not the saddest thing that ever happened to me. In fact, I’m a little befuddled as to how I fell into public relations anyway. I believe I was in my thirteenth year of college and trying really hard to decide what I wanted to do. What I really wanted to do, of course, was to open a business where people could come rent me by the hour to eat lunch with them and provide witty conversation. Then maybe afterwards we go see a movie, or take a nap. Or gossip. Maybe go to Media Buy to look up CDs we already own and read the back of DVDs we’ll never watch.

Anywhich, when I left Ballard Communications, I thought maybe it was time to try something different. I had some very real leads at a couple of PR firms and advertising agencies… but just wasn’t feeling excited about any of them. I had the luxury of picking up several clients on my own – people I had once worked with that needed help on specific projects or agencies out of Las Vegas that wanted a Las Vegas presence – and that allowed me to be choosier than, say, if I woke up one morning to find we couldn’t afford Blue Bunny Ice Cream for breakfast anymore.

So instead of taking the first job that became available at an ad agency, I browsed for something new. Thus began a very strange and hilarious phase of job interviews, two of which I will share with you right now.

First, I interviewed to be a sales rep with Pfizer. Yes, the drug company. And since I don’t own even one tablet of aspirin, haven’t had a prescription for anything my entire adult life, and have no need for Viagra (yeah, baby), you are probably wondering if I was even remotely qualified to work for Pfizer. Answer: Nuh-uh.

I interviewed here in Vegas first, then they flew me down to San Diego for a second interview. It was during the second interview that I could tell this job wasn’t going to happen. The guy interviewing me had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that I would be willing to switch careers and head into an entirely different industry.

“Why would you leave public relations? You have so much experience.”

“Well, I want to try something new. I feel like I’ve hit a ceiling in the world of public relations, and I want more opportunity for growth.” (Translation: Mo’ money!)

“Well…I just don’t understand why you would leave a field where you are successful to start on the bottom rung of another industry.”

“Well, is the pay at the bottom rung pretty horrible?” (Translation: It is mo’ money, right?)

“Actually, it’s quite good.”

“Well then I don’t care what my title is. I don’t plan to stay on the bottom rung forever.” (Translation: As long as I’m makin’ mo’ money!)

“Yeahhh…..” (Looking at me like he didn’t believe me.)

“I wouldn’t expect you to give me a senior level position in a new industry, at a new company. I am willing to take the bottom rung, for now.” (Translation: ‘cause the bottom rung is still mo’ money, honey!)

“Yeahhhh….” (Looking at me like he still didn’t believe me.)

I walked out of there and knew that was the end of my career at Pfizer. My plane didn’t leave until that evening, so I walked down to the beach for a couple of hours. That’s when I remembered that I would be completely reimbursed for this trip by Pfizer. Up onto my feet, and we walked until we found a nice steak and ribs place, where we ate way too much. And I was none too impressed with this waitress. You know how usually they try to force more food on you? “Did we save room for dessert?” and the like? Not this joint. I had to ask for dessert(s). Then I moseyed on over to a tiny movie theater in the strip mall nearby. It was playing one movie. Paparazzi. Never heard of it.

I walked up to the guy in the window. “What’s this movie, Paparazzi?”

“Uhh…I don’t know. It was directed by Mel Gibson’s hairdresser.”

(We both laugh to each other about how ridiculous that sounds.) “Wow,” I said, “that doesn’t sound like much of a ringing endorsement.”

(We continue to laugh, then it dies to some chuckles, then it gets completely quiet. We’re just staring at each other in silence.)

“One, please.” And I slid my money under the glass.

My second interesting job interview was with a company that does digital imaging. (P.S. Avoid the movie Paparazzi like you avoid the plague. On a scale of 1 to 10, I give Paparazzi a thumb’s down.) Anyway, digital imaging. It’s not the life of a jet-setter, but it was another opportunity to not do public relations or advertising. It was another sales position.

My friend Brent turned me onto this opportunity, as he had been with the company on the technical support side of things for a number of years. He lined up the interview for me. Then he called me a few minutes beforehand.

“Uhm…you’re interviewing with Bo…he’s the president of the company.”

“Great.”

“Yeah…uhm…he wants us to come to his house for the interview. He hasn’t come in to work yet. He….I’m sorry Ken, this whole thing is really unprofessional. Whatever you do, don’t wear a tie.”

Brent picked me up and we drove over to Bo’s house. We walked into his backyard, and I suddenly found myself staring at a very thin Elliot Gould, circa Ocean’s 11. The man had on a robe, shorts, flip-flops, sunglasses, a baseball cap, and thin cigar between his lips that had quit smoldering about 15 minutes prior. He claimed to be from Las Vegas, but if so, then he picked up a New York accent from hanging out with the mob for too, too long.

He was hanging out in his back yard, having one of his employees – I’m not making this up – fix his pool. We sat down at the patio table: me, Brent, Elliot Gould, and his other employee.

“So, Ken…tell me about yourself.” (Said in thick, Jewish, NY accent from Las Vegas.)

“Well, I was previously working at Community Bank of Nevada, where we did $300 million in revenue last year.”

“And was that because of you?” (It suddenly became apparent this guy was trying to compliment me, no matter what I said or had done.)

“Well, no. I wasn’t a loan officer, I was the director of marketing. So, really, I would try to drive the business to the loan officers.”

“So, they couldn’t have done it without you, is that what you’re saying? Don’t be modest.”

“Well, I –”

“Can you create a marketing plan?”

“Sure.”

(Looking at Brent, with a very smug look.) “That’s great, because Brent here hasn’t created one yet – and I’m sorry to say, Brent, my wife is very upset with you.” (Mrs. Elliot Gould is the CFO of the company.)

“Uhm…I’m tech support. I don’t think that’s my job…?” said a bemused Brent.

“What else, Ken?”

“Well, I was working at Ballard Communications…but they are having financial difficulties.”

“Didn’t they know that before they hired you?”

“You’d think so.”

“So, they hired you to save them…but it was too little, too late.”

“I guess. Like I was hired to steer the Titanic.”

“You know…I saw Titanic yesterday for my third time…(wait for it)…powerful movie.”

We sat at that table for about an hour, experiencing tangent after tangent, before Bo/Elliot Gould stands and announced, “Let’s take this conversation to a restaurant. You like steak?”

On the way out to the car he has me follow him into his house, where his wife is on death’s door with some kind of croup. I’m waiting in the hallway, and he is about ten feet from me, looking into a bedroom, and having a one-sided conversation with someone who I hope is his wife.

“We’re going to The Ranch House, do you want something? Why don’t you come here and meet Ken Craig. I know you’re sick, but he’s right here. Well, do you want something form the restaurant? I know you’re sick, just come meet Ken Craig…we’re on our way to the restaurant. What are you watching, Titanic?”

She walks out to meet me and shakes my hand. And if whatever was making her feel that sick was on her hand, I was certainly not going to be eating steak before washing my hands. She looked like she had been praying for death and was hoping I could assist with her termination. We exchanged pleasantries, she whispered “Please kill me,” and Bo, Brent, Employee, and I left.

We sit down at the restaurant and Bo offers me the job. Boom. It’s mine. He says he’ll have to run it by his wife, the CFO, but as far as he is concerned, it’s mine. Says he’ll call me early next week.

I never got that phone call. The next Sunday Brent told me that Bo/Elliot Gould had checked himself into rehab in Reno. But he said Mrs. Elliot Gould was still alive and still wanted to interview me. We met and she offered me the job, in between puffs on her non-Virginia Slim cigarettes. She said, “Well, I’m going to have to look at the books, but I think we can get you what you are asking for.” I never did get what I was asking for, because the next Sunday Brent told me she was filing for divorce and they weren’t sure what was going to happen with the company. I told him “You know what, Brent, I’m not really interested in the job anymore.”

A couple more job interviews, a couple of offers (including an offer to be the VP of Public Relations at a firm in Phoenix, Arizona!), but nothing seemed to fit right. Then…one day…

Another friend told me about a job where he worked – as a sales rep for World Savings, a mortgage lending company. A huge mortgage lending company. I interviewed, the interview went well, my friend let me know that both gentlemen I interviewed with thought highly enough of my abilities, charm, and willingness to suck up that they were going to offer me the job. And then they did. And I took it.

That was Wednesday. Friday, I was at a friend’s Christmas party. A friend of my friend overheard me talking to my first friend about my new job possibility at World Savings. He approached me and said, “Hey, I didn’t know you were looking for something. I would love to hire you. I work for Atrium Windows, and we need a sales guy. If you want it, the job’s yours.”

That was it. No interview, no questions, no idea what Atrium Windows does. So I took it.

Monday morning I woke up, showered, walked out to my driveway, got in my car, and sat there wondering which of the two jobs that I had accepted was going to be the one I actually drove to and started working at. I sat there for a while.

I chose Atrium Windows.

I love telling people I am a sales rep for a window company. I love it because it conjures up one of two images. The first is that I work in a retail window shop. You know, like in a strip mall, where people sort of casually wonder in, just browsing really. And maybe, just maybe, they make an impulse buy.

“Oh, Reginald! Look at this tan, vinyl-framed horizontal slider with the TP grids! Have you EVER?!”

“NEVER, Lovey.”

“I HAVE to have one, Reginald!”

“Of course you do, dear. Sales Rep, we’ll take TWO! Gift-wrapped, please.”

“Certainly, Sir. May I suggest Lowe glass instead of standard clear?”

The second image is that I am actually a door-to-door salesman, carrying framed windows under my arm. I’m dressed quite snappy, with a hat of some sort a-top my head, a pep in my step, a grin on my face, and windows on my mind.

I like to perpetuate these images, soI have canned responses when people ask me how the window biz is shaping up. It is either “I can hardly keep these things on the shelf!” or “They are sellin’ like hotcakes!” And if somebody has called me during work, I like to cut the conversation short by saying, “Well, I better get back to work. These windows aren’t going to sell themselves!”

I hesitate to puncture a hole in the dapper, 1950's image you have created in your mind, but in actuality, Atrium Windows is a window subcontractor. We work with homebuilders to win the opportunity to supply windows for the subdivisions they are building. I essentially try to butter up the purchasing folks at the homebuilders’ office to get the work, then have the superintendents swear at me on the job sites where we supply the windows. That’s the short definition. And I figure the shorter the definition, the more likely you are to try and care.

At least I have job security, because, well, you know, everyone loooooves window shopping. So I got that goin' for me. Which is nice.

A Soap By Any Other Name...

We moved into our new home at the end of June, and more ecstatic I could not be. We loved our last home. It was the first home we ever owned. (And by “owned” I mean “owed an obscene amount of money to Washington Mutual.”) Two of our children were literally born inside that house, (one on the couch, one on the toilet.), we loved our neighbors, and we loved the low interest rate. But the time had come when we had really outgrown the place. Plus I didn’t want to have to take my daughter into the bathroom one day, point at the toilet, and say, “I’m afraid the rumors are true, Roxanna…this is where we brought you into the world.”

As fate would have it, I also started a new job this year. A job that has enabled us to own this new house, no less. (And by “own” I mean “owe an obscene amount of money to IndyMac Bank.”) The job is good, the house is wonderful, my family is healthy and happy … but if I’m going to be completely honest, I must admit that my entire sense of accomplishment stems from something else. Soap.

On our first morning in our new home I stepped into the shower to discover a new bar of soap, the likes of which I had never before seen. “This isn’t our standard Spring-scented Ivory,” I thought to myself. No, this soap was white…and kind of oval shaped. Hmmm… I picked it up, wetted it in the shower stream, and began rubbing it between my hands to produce a lather – the way God intended. Sweet saints and soldiers – this soap was fantastic! It smelled of success. It smelled of destiny. It smelled of providence. There is no way that a man having showered with this soap could not have concerted power over his own fate and the fate of the people around him. No sir. This was clandestine soap. This was the soap of corporate executives. Of media moguls. Of members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts & Sciences, for crying out loud! This soap had a new convert, to be sure. I became addicted.

My confidence at work – unmatched My social calendar – filled. My drollness around strangers – above reproach. I was certain that life could never get any better for me, now that I had discovered this life-shifting soap! Psychiatrists should prescribe this stuff, I thought. How much better the world could be if we could all ascertain the power of this soap. Bless you, Katie, my darling bride…bless you for experimenting with new soap.

And then one day the soap had gotten quite small.

“Honey,” I shouted from inside the shower, feeling powerful and masculine. “Can you hand me another bar of soap, this one is almost gone.”

“Really? Are you using the Ivory?”

”No. That is substandard soap.”

"What have you been using?”

“The other soap. The white, oval-shaped soap.”

“Oh. Huh. That soap was here when we moved in.”

I froze mid-lather, my hands to my face. The stream of water from the showerhead beating against my chest with a deafening reverberation. I was partially horrified that I was using a bar of soap owned and used regularly by a man I had never met, and partially horrified that the soap was almost gone, and I had no idea what it was called or where I could find more of it. I quietly wept, hiding my tears in the shower stream.

The soap is gone now. I guess it’s only a matter of time before I can kiss my job and this house goodbye as well. (Who’s going to employ a guy that smells like Irish Spring? Well, I don’t want to work for that employer, mister. I can’t go back to being that guy.)