I am so unsuited, temperamentally, for the job I do that itís a wonder Iím so good at it. At least I think Iíve found my highest level of competence, and Iím beyond the age where ambition might prod me to aim a little higher. That would be a disaster. In fact, I think Iíve been there, which is why I am where I am now.
The Census Bureau claims to have randomly selected businesses to complete a questionnaire on various tedious aspects of ownership and operation. Their randomness might be called into question by the fact that I got two of these surveys, one for the construction company and one for the Kennel, and they both arrived in the mail today, and I have thirty days under penalty of dismemberment (or something like that; I didnít really read that part) to return them.
Lucky me, to be randomly selected twice in one day for something that bores me to tears. Iím a numbers guy, and I can do the part where I tell them what percentage of the business we did last year was done for the federal government, and the state government, and other businesses, and individuals. But when they start asking about how much capital the Boss had when he started the company (in 1974, by the way) you know what that means? I have to actually talk to him. Ugh.
If Iím the object of such miraculous randomness, I wonder if I shouldnít buy a lottery ticket. More likely, though, I should prepare for a tax audit, just in case that wheel spins randomly my way. I donít hate my job; I just hate doing about half of the things my job requires. Itís a good thing Iím just a lowly bookkeeper, because if I had to do more than keep numbers in the right places, Iíd have to start drinking.