My Brilliant Career

A career is a funny thing. I’m not talking funny ha-ha. I’m talking funny-strange. As in, “That’s strange, where’d my career go? It was here a minute ago.” One day I was writing for TV, and the next, I wasn’t. I turned away briefly, to have my uterus removed, or maybe it was my gall bladder, I forget, and my career pulled an Elvis and left the building.  “Are you coming back?” I asked my career. It had no comment. It just skidded out the parking lot, packed up and moved out of town, address unknown. Naturally, my spirits plunged, but I kept going. I vowed to track down my career, no matter what. So I searched and I googled, I twittered and I facebooked, but all I found were some early credits I thought I’d buried for good.

Did the world need to know about my eight-day stint on “Those Amazing Animals?” Okay, fine, so that was me coaching a cow to say quack and a duck to say moo. Not that they obeyed. The cow mooed, the duck quacked and I got fired. It’s all there on YouTube.  Did the world need to know about my brief time as a ghost-writer for George W? Uh, no. Remember that line, “They misunderestimated me”? That was mine. No wonder I got canned.  And yet, I forged ahead. I went on craigslist and hired a private detective. I admit, my judgment was cloudy. “I need you to find my missing career,” I said, and put him on a two-week retainer. He came back with disturbing news. “Yeah, so, your career’s gone Witness Protection on ya. Changed its name. Altered its appearance. Done a switcheroo. Genderwise, I heard it’s a guy.”

“No way my career’s a dude,” I said. “She’s 100 percent chick-flick. She’s into pink. She paints her toes, wears lipstick and smells good. She’s all about romantic comedies with strong female characters. Talk baseball and her eyes glaze over. Look at her wrong and she cries.” “Maybe that was true, back in the day, but I’m telling you, she’s a he now,” he said, handing me a bill.

“Nice work, Sherlock,” I said. “You spelled my name wrong. It’s Carol Starr Schneider, not Carl Stan Snyder. You spent the last two weeks looking for someone else’s career, you idiot. I’m not paying this.” He gave me a look. “Too bad you gave me your Visa Card number. I already charged ya. Ba-bye.” “Not cool,” I said.

After that debacle, anyone else would’ve called it quits. Not this short Jewish gal. I went a whole new way. Got in my car and drove to Kinko’s. Printed up some hot-pink flyers, with a super-glam, photo-shopped version of myself, wrinkle-free. Underneath my mug, it said, “Have you seen my career? Call me at 1-800-I-M-YOUNG.” Sure, I got a few calls, a few career sightings, but none of them matched my description.

Recently, I’ve decided to dial back the search for my missing career. I’ve gone Zen. I’ve gone “Field of Dreams.” I figure if I keep writing, my career will come back on its own. In the meantime, it’s comforting to know I can always count on my youngest for moral support, not to mention unsolicited advice.  Just the other day he looked over my shoulder at a work in progress. “You can do better than that, Mom,” he said. “I can?” “Enough with the nice stuff. You need to write something edgy, like ‘Pineapple Express’ or ‘The Hangover.’ ” “You mean with lots of drugs and sex and vomit?” “Exactly.” “But that’s not me, honey. I write heartfelt. I write warm and funny.” “Are you crazy? No one’s gonna buy that. No one cares about heart, anymore.”

Well, he’s probably right, but this is what I do. It’s what I’ve always done. Like I said, my career’s a chick. It likes candlelight and bubble baths, fluffy slippers and chocolate. My career is not a dude. But hey, I’m open to suggestions. What else have you got, son? I’m all ears.