Wait For It… a blog by Andy Ross

Set Goals

Posted on December 14, 2010

I (Andy, the real guy who writes this blog) run a storytelling/character monologue show in Brooklyn called Real Characters. And, in honor of tonight's show, I thought I'd share another quick, true story:

In my mid-twenties, I was a sign painter at Trader Joe's grocery store--mostly chalkboards or wine displays, a few murals now and again.

One day, we ran out of art supplies, but there were still masala sauces that "needed their value shouted out." I was the only person who hadn't biked to work that day, so I drove over to Home Depot to restock. I was wearing a paint-splattered Hawaiian shirt and nametag at the time.

In the parking lot outside Home Depot, I made my way to the green, dumpy Saturn I had gotten at sixteen. I loaded the trunk with cans of primer, brushes, sandpaper, some paint markers, and a few sheets of luan, which is like a thin version of plywood. By the time I got it to all fit, I was sweating.

I walked to the driver's side door, and here's where it gets subtly interesting. A woman--probably in her late twenties, blonde and chewing jgum--cut me off. Just as I put my hand on the door handle, she jogged over and body-blocked me so that she could open the passenger door of the car to my left.

Now, I should point out that this was not New York. This was Chicago. So, getting cut off by someone is extremely rare. Almost unheard of. Definitely attention-grabbing.

I suddenly noticed the car next to mine was a white BMW convertible. The driver was a tall blonde man with wavy hair, also chewing gum. I'm blonde; I have nothing against blondes. But, sometimes blonde men look like they should be the bad guy in a movie about lacrosse. This was that guy. Gucci sunglasses, if that helps paint the picture.

The woman who cut me off was carrying a single item from Home Depot--a toilet plunger. As she and her boyfriend (or perhaps husband), both wearing tennis whites, peeled out of the parking lot in their white Beemer, I saw the license plate. It read, in bold letters, "SET GOLS."

Sometimes I like to think about that couple going home to their Gold Coast apartment building, nodding to the doorman, taking the elevator up the their condo, and unclogging their fabulous shits. It reminds me to set goals.

Guys, remember to set goals. Set goals, everybody. It's important.


My Life Goals

Posted on August 2, 2010

I thought I’d share with you guys a list of my life goals. I haven’t read The Secret, but from what I’ve cobbled together, it seems like you’re supposed to externalize your desires. Then, at night, Oprah Winfrey comes and leaves a new car under your pillow. So, this is me externalizing. My life goals are to:

- Someday own a second pair of shorts.

- Travel to Istanbul and really Istanbul it up.

- Remain roguishly handsome.

- Finally get Esperanto up onto its feet.

- Ride on a motorcycle without wetting myself.

- Build my own home. Or, my own Build-A-Bear.

- Finish writing my bucket list.

- Wear more whimsical hats. (“More” both in number of hats and amount of whimsy.)

- Stop hitting on my bosses’ wives.

- Learn how to play two ukuleles at once.

- Buy second ukulele.

- Meet Jim Henson and shake his hand. (This one might be tough.)

- Own a dog that looks like me. A roguishly handsome dog.

- Somehow have my blog “discovered” by the Colbert Report folks, and be instantly hired to write for the show. Failing that, win the lottery.

- Slowly become crotchety and/or curmudgeonly.

- Became better at proofreating.

- Work at a frozen custard stand. Steal as much custard as I can fit in my pockets.

- Stop watching Glee. It’s horrible, but I can’t look away.

- Dance like no one is watching.

- Have kids that look like me. Roguishly handsome daughters.

- Die in an epically heroic manner.

- Have it turn out that I survived somehow. Be lauded.

- Find that pen I lost.