A Memoir
It's impossible for an eleven year old to listen to a man with only eight fingers. He could be saying that he's about to give you a lifetime supply of Tootsie Pops or Pop Tarts or some other wondrous prize, but the only thought running through your mind will be, "where the hell are his pinkies?!" Don't try this at home kids; it's just plain impossible.
In this case, the eight-fingered man is a priest at my church and is decidedly not offering a prize. At least not anything I'm interested in at eleven. Eternal life and salvation are the least of my worries. I have the rest of my life to worry about my soul and being swallowed by the pits of hell. Eternity, to me, is sitting in church for an hour every Sunday.
My mom, obviously on to the fact that I'm not listening, as I'm currently slouched down in the pew and counting ceiling fan rotations, instructs me to sit up and listen to the father.
"Do you have any Lifesavers?", I ask.
She shakes her head no and shushes me.
Damn it.
"Does it count as a sin if you think a swear in church?," I whisper, slightly concerned.
I see her eyes roll and swear I detect a slight smirk. Getting my parents to laugh in church is the ultimate win-- even a small, thinly spread wisp of a smile is a chink in the armor; a small but exploitable gap in the unified front of church-going and godliness. Ha, I'm funnier and more interesting than church. Take that, God. It's usually my goal to make them laugh at least once during the sermon, particularly when there's no possibility of Lifesavers or any other suckable candy that guaranteed my parents at least a couple of minutes quiet time, but today I'm much more interested in getting the full story of the eight-fingered father.
Church wouldn't be so bad, if it wasn't preceded by a full hour of Sunday school. Sunday school starts way too early and reminds me of a pre-game show. No one cares about the pre-game show. They're getting nachos ready and beer cold. They're here for the main event. God, in his omnipotence, should be well aware of this.
To make matters worse, my Sunday school teacher is literally the most boring human being alive. At this point, I'm fairly certain he's actually one of the apostles. It's the only possible explanation as to why he's so old and boring. He's not in touch with the way things operate in our advanced, modern society. We have Nintendo now, the most important discovery of the 20th century. There's no way he can compete with that. He's constantly making us leaf through our Sunday school workbooks that contain pictures and seemingly endless stories of miracles and tales of Jesus and his crazy antics. Anyone that wasn't an apostolic time-traveler would know that modern kids would be much more interested in reading if the illustrated biblical characters looked more like the Dream Team or New Kids on the Block. Duh.
When he talks about the crucifixion, which is a lot, I find myself secretly rooting for Jesus. That, just once, Jesus would look (disdainfully, of course) at Pontius Pilate and say, "Yeah dude, I'm totally the King of the Jews. What are you gonna do about it?" This would enliven the crowd of Romans and Jews alike and culminate in a WWF-style cage match between Jesus and Pontius. Which Jesus would obviously win by pile-driving Pontius head first into the mat and then helicoptering him into the toga-ed crowd. That never seems to happen though. And I still have an hour of church after this...
Kneel, sit, stand, bow, shake someone's hand. The father sings something. Hymn. Sit. Another hymn. Stand. I wonder if the lady playing the organ lives full-time up on the organ balcony. I imagine her fixed to the side of organ day in and day out, steadfast in her duty, devoted only to playing the music of the Lord. Nuns would go by twice a day, three times on Sunday, to feed her some eucharist and wine. Occasionally, when the church is empty and she has the ears of the Lord to herself, she plays baseball music to keep her spirits up. She imagines the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit all enjoy a good rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." She plays on into the night, the sounds of the organ echoing out into the dark, empty pulpit. She plays herself to sleep, only to be gently roused by a nun in the morning with a fresh plate of warm eucharist.
Well, that train of thought lasted about twelve seconds. Now what? I look around. Kneel. Finally, when I'm totally unable to occupy my mind any longer (I've looked at every single stained glass window and for being so colorful, they're all alarmingly boring--couldn't they at least have thrown in some saints getting mauled by lions?), I break down and frantically, in far too loud of a whisper, ask my mom why the father only has eight fingers.
"I'm not sure. I think he was born that way," she responds.
I squirm in my seat, swinging my head back to the altar, incredulous. Being told anything or anyone was "born that way" is the worst possible answer to a question. There aren't any follow up questions. There's no room for imagination or exaggeration. Up to this point, the possibilities were endless. In my mind, the father could've been accosted and captured by a gang of angry Jews in South America while trying to build a school for blind children. They might have been merciful and agreed to let him go with his life, but kept his pinkies as a warning. There could've been a freak baptism of teething twins who, upon being plunged into frigid holy water, had a knee-jerk biting reaction and clamped down onto the nearest objects for survival. But, no. This would not be chalked up to a fluke occupational hazard. There was no derring-do, he was just "born that way". End of story.
I think about it for a while and realize that I can find some solace in this. Because if a person can be born without pinkies, and still want to come to church everyday, a place with boring stained glass and overzealous organ ladies, he must really love God. So, surely, there's still hope for me.
Saturday, March 7, 2009
My Winnipeg and The War for North America
We have a strange relationship with Canada. We call them our neighbors to the north but really, we don't like sharing our continent with them. We scoff at the fact that most Canadians live so close to our border, as if clinging to us a like a scared girlfriend watching a horror movie. This land is NOT your land, Canada, this land is OUR land. And we're not the friendly type of neighbor, so quit looking over the fence at us.
I recently traveled to Winnipeg for a week of meetings with my job. Upon telling people of my intended travel to Canada, I was met with the same patronizing look someone gives you when you tell them you've just sat in traffic for two hours.
"Really? Oh, that sucks. Why?"
At first, I found myself matching the tone of their labored condolence, explaining dejectedly that it was "for work", but I didn't truly understand the origin of this intense pity. It goes without saying that our American ethnocentricity runs deeply, and there are few (if any) countries that truly escape our disdain. Even if we have to stand on our tippy-toes, we're looking down our nose at you. But, if the world was gym class (and really, it might as well be) we see Canada as the fat, slow kid that could never get to the top of the rope. We pick him last.
I decided an investigation was in order. I would use this trip as an opportunity to poke, prod, and perform what I considered to be a social autopsy on Canadians. I needed to expose (and possibly exploit) our differences.
What I found up north surprised me. Their blood was blue, they breathed (get this) air, they laughed. Just like us! I was fortunate to have encountered a slew of proud Winnepegians who I found to be friendly, intelligent, sincere, and down-to-earth. They inquired about the upcoming election, the state of our economy, and gas prices. It turns out that our neighbors to the north are quite privy to what goes on down here. Even the weather reports don't stop at the border as they do in the States. I'd never noticed, but American weather maps stop curiously at our northern border, as if to say, "meh...don't care."
Embarrassed about my complete and utterly blatant lack of knowledge of Winnipeg and Canada in general, I became a bit uneasy when the inevitable break in the conversation would come, and I realized it was my turn to ask a question.
"So, I hear it gets pretty cold up here, huh?"
I cringed every time the words left my mouth. Asking a Winnipegian about the winter weather felt like asking a person on crutches how they broke their foot: you know they're going to tell you, but they're probably sick of talking about it. This is not to say, however, that they don't answer energetically, treating you like you were the first person to inquire about the weather in ages. Polite? Yes. But, it's more than that. They're also undoubtedly proud of their ability to withstand this seemingly cruel and unusual punishment Mother Nature has unfairly sentenced them with. And who can blame them?
There were stories. Epic winter tales that have lent themselves to embellishment, been honed to perfection, and told many times over. My favorite was the story about a fellow who, in his brash adolescence, cut the top off his first car so he could have a convertible. The story came complete with a histrionic reenactment of his subsequent (and somehow successful) attempts to brave the relentless and bitter winter.
I couldn't help but think to myself, where's the beef? Was there any merit to our reasoning for the way we view them? Surely, we hadn't condemned an entire nation because of its affinity for hockey and curling, had we? Was it the metric system? Or because they took longer to politely squirm free of British rule? Was it because, despite their sovereignty, they kept the Queen on their money? What WAS it?
The more I searched for differences between us, the more I realized how alike we were. What I found, as I almost always do when I travel, is that, geographical locale, language, and culture differences notwithstanding, people are people. It's not that complicated because, despite our heculean attempts to convince ourselves otherwise, people aren't that complicated. If we can share a species, we can certainly share a continent. And you never know, it might start to get lonely being the big kid holding the last dodgeball.
A Dear John Letter to the Green-Eyed Monster
Dear Greenie,
I write to you today with a heavy heart. For today, my fair Greenie, after all this time together, we must part ways.
You've been there for me through even the most sane moments of my life, and have always been the one who was so willing to turn everything on its head. You were there when I least expected you, as if to add the last word to an already completed sentence. You were there for my tornadoes of emotion, and have become synonymous with that hot feeling that spreads from my neck to my face during my fits of illogical rage and bursts of unnecessary panic. Your appreciation for the beauty of these moments will not soon be forgotten.
I don't think you're a monster, Greenie. I never have. I think you're raw and uncomplicated; beautiful in your own right. I think you're misunderstood, like most that are deemed monsters. But while I appreciate what we've shared, I must tell you that it is over between us. I need to move on and know a life without you in it. For now, it will be hard. But, Greenie, I know there are others out there who need you. And with time, I know you'll be just fine.
With Kindest Regards,
Magen
xoxo
I write to you today with a heavy heart. For today, my fair Greenie, after all this time together, we must part ways.
You've been there for me through even the most sane moments of my life, and have always been the one who was so willing to turn everything on its head. You were there when I least expected you, as if to add the last word to an already completed sentence. You were there for my tornadoes of emotion, and have become synonymous with that hot feeling that spreads from my neck to my face during my fits of illogical rage and bursts of unnecessary panic. Your appreciation for the beauty of these moments will not soon be forgotten.
I don't think you're a monster, Greenie. I never have. I think you're raw and uncomplicated; beautiful in your own right. I think you're misunderstood, like most that are deemed monsters. But while I appreciate what we've shared, I must tell you that it is over between us. I need to move on and know a life without you in it. For now, it will be hard. But, Greenie, I know there are others out there who need you. And with time, I know you'll be just fine.
With Kindest Regards,
Magen
xoxo
Global Menopause
An Exclusive Interview with Mother Earth
There has been much debate about global warming, but most experts now agree that global warming is indeed a real threat to our survival. When we return, an exclusive interview with the woman behind the mystery. In her very first television appearance in 4.6 billion years, we welcome to the program Mother Earth.
Barbara Walters: Mother Earth, thank you so very much for being here with us tonight.
Mother Earth: It's my pleasure, Barbara.
BW: Tell us, Mother Earth, how are you?
ME: Well Barbara, truth be told, I'm not as young as I used to be. One day, you wake up and look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Your glaciers are sagging, your canyons run deeper, and your techtonic plates ache when you get out of bed in the morning.
BW: I think some of our viewers out there can relate!
ME: I may look and feel 4.6 billion years old, Barbara, but my mind is as sharp as it was when I was 3 billion!
BW: Ahh, to be 3 billion again...
ME: (chuckles) Indeed.
BW: Talk to us about the warming as of late, Mother Earth.
ME: Well Barbara, when a woman gets to be my age, she starts.. er, changing. I fear I don't have much control over it. Someday soon my fossil fuels will run dry and I will begin a new chapter of my life.
BW: What does this mean for us as humans?
ME: (Sigh.) You humans are my favorite species. Don't tell the others.. not that they'd understand! haha. I've truly enjoyed watching you evolve. After that meteor hit and all my dinosaurs were gone, I was devastated. Not to mention smarting like a bitch! That thing hurt!
BW: That was quite a catastrophic time for you, wasn't it?
ME: Yes, it was. The sulfuric rain in itself was horrible, but on top of it all, Father Time and I grew apart. I pulled away from him when he needed me the most.
BW: And then what happened?
ME: Well, it started when I saw the emails on Myspace. It all made sense to me then. He was in love with her and was planning to leave me.
BW: Another woman?
ME: Yes. Let's face it, Barbara. I'm not as volcanic as I used to be, and our relationship lost its spark. He fell in love with someone else. And who can blame him? Mars is beautiful. She has a thinner atmosphere, permanent, perky ice caps, and she's red. How can I compete with that?
BW: But you're still here and as beautiful as ever.
ME: It's amazing to even me.
BW: So, what's next?
ME: As I said, I've enjoyed watching you evolve. You are the most intelligent species yet, and my bond with you runs deeply. But you continue to take so much from me, and I fear I've spoiled you. You fight with each other and do such destructive things. It's all so incomprehensible.
BW: We've grown apart.
ME: More than I could've ever imagined. I've provided so much for you all. And I'm now at the age where I want to relax and watch you grow old, but I fear I can't rely on you to take care of me. But one thing is certain, Barbara. My existence will continue to unfold, with or without you. Extinction is a way of life here, unfortunately for your species. But with extinction comes change for me. And I am resilient. You humans fail to see this through your limited scope of existence here.
BW: You will go on, won't you Mother Earth?
ME: I will. Though my core may grow cold, or I may be knocked from my axis, though I may no longer be recognizable as I am today, my matter shall be conserved.
BW: Well, great Mother, thanks so much for joining us tonight. It has truly been an honor.
ME: Thanks to you as well, Barbara. I will be rooting for you and your kind.
There has been much debate about global warming, but most experts now agree that global warming is indeed a real threat to our survival. When we return, an exclusive interview with the woman behind the mystery. In her very first television appearance in 4.6 billion years, we welcome to the program Mother Earth.
Barbara Walters: Mother Earth, thank you so very much for being here with us tonight.
Mother Earth: It's my pleasure, Barbara.
BW: Tell us, Mother Earth, how are you?
ME: Well Barbara, truth be told, I'm not as young as I used to be. One day, you wake up and look in the mirror and barely recognize yourself. Your glaciers are sagging, your canyons run deeper, and your techtonic plates ache when you get out of bed in the morning.
BW: I think some of our viewers out there can relate!
ME: I may look and feel 4.6 billion years old, Barbara, but my mind is as sharp as it was when I was 3 billion!
BW: Ahh, to be 3 billion again...
ME: (chuckles) Indeed.
BW: Talk to us about the warming as of late, Mother Earth.
ME: Well Barbara, when a woman gets to be my age, she starts.. er, changing. I fear I don't have much control over it. Someday soon my fossil fuels will run dry and I will begin a new chapter of my life.
BW: What does this mean for us as humans?
ME: (Sigh.) You humans are my favorite species. Don't tell the others.. not that they'd understand! haha. I've truly enjoyed watching you evolve. After that meteor hit and all my dinosaurs were gone, I was devastated. Not to mention smarting like a bitch! That thing hurt!
BW: That was quite a catastrophic time for you, wasn't it?
ME: Yes, it was. The sulfuric rain in itself was horrible, but on top of it all, Father Time and I grew apart. I pulled away from him when he needed me the most.
BW: And then what happened?
ME: Well, it started when I saw the emails on Myspace. It all made sense to me then. He was in love with her and was planning to leave me.
BW: Another woman?
ME: Yes. Let's face it, Barbara. I'm not as volcanic as I used to be, and our relationship lost its spark. He fell in love with someone else. And who can blame him? Mars is beautiful. She has a thinner atmosphere, permanent, perky ice caps, and she's red. How can I compete with that?
BW: But you're still here and as beautiful as ever.
ME: It's amazing to even me.
BW: So, what's next?
ME: As I said, I've enjoyed watching you evolve. You are the most intelligent species yet, and my bond with you runs deeply. But you continue to take so much from me, and I fear I've spoiled you. You fight with each other and do such destructive things. It's all so incomprehensible.
BW: We've grown apart.
ME: More than I could've ever imagined. I've provided so much for you all. And I'm now at the age where I want to relax and watch you grow old, but I fear I can't rely on you to take care of me. But one thing is certain, Barbara. My existence will continue to unfold, with or without you. Extinction is a way of life here, unfortunately for your species. But with extinction comes change for me. And I am resilient. You humans fail to see this through your limited scope of existence here.
BW: You will go on, won't you Mother Earth?
ME: I will. Though my core may grow cold, or I may be knocked from my axis, though I may no longer be recognizable as I am today, my matter shall be conserved.
BW: Well, great Mother, thanks so much for joining us tonight. It has truly been an honor.
ME: Thanks to you as well, Barbara. I will be rooting for you and your kind.
Locked Out
Also, God Mocks Me
I can never lead a normal life and here's why:
I finally get out of work tonight at about 11 pm, exasperated from a hard and unecessarily annoying night of work. My phone battery sucks, so I often turn it off when I'm not using it. As I'm walking to my car, I turn my pitiful phone back on (god, I hate it) to see if I can glean another second of battery usage and check messages. To my surprise, I have two new voicemails. Two new voicemails? I don't even know two people. And so it begins.
"Hey Magen, it's Lauren. I locked myself out of your house. I'm at Jack in the Box using some Mexican guy's cell phone. I think your phone is dead. I guess I'll just wait outside."
Next message.
"Hi Magen, it's Mom. Lauren said she's locked out..? What's going on?"
End of new messages.
Sigh. I am now on my knees and face down in the parking lot wondering why I had given my sister the only set of keys to the house. My coworker spots me on the ground and walks over to me.
"What's wrong? Why are you on your knees and face down in the parking lot?"
I explain what happened, red in the face, holding back nary a swear. She kindly agrees to help me out and we head to the house to assess the situation. We finally arrive, and after attempting to determine how my sister could sit outside for FOUR hours and have neither gathered nuts/berries nor whittled a key from a nearby tree, we decide on calling a locksmith.
Thirty-five minutes and several cigarettes later (I took up smoking for dramatic effect), our swashbuckling hero arrives. Complete with an underwhelming tool kit that looks alarmingly like mine (which consists of a hammer from Ikea, a rusty wrench, and some jelly beans), flip flops (shouldn't he have on boots or something?), and wearing what I'm almost certain is woman's perfume, he scratches his head and tells us he can't pick the lock. Of course he can't. Why would a locksmith be able to pick a lock? It's not like he's, oh I don't know, a LOCKSMITH or something! I finally understand how Nancy Kerrigan must've felt. Why me, indeed.
His weirdly excessive giggling and total incompetence notwithstanding (and to make a long, not-so-exciting story shorter), I will give him credit for finally shimmying his way into a second story window. After he charged us an extra seventy-five bucks, of course.
The moral of the story, as anti-climactic as it may be, is: getting locked out is only funny when it's not happening to you.
I can never lead a normal life and here's why:
I finally get out of work tonight at about 11 pm, exasperated from a hard and unecessarily annoying night of work. My phone battery sucks, so I often turn it off when I'm not using it. As I'm walking to my car, I turn my pitiful phone back on (god, I hate it) to see if I can glean another second of battery usage and check messages. To my surprise, I have two new voicemails. Two new voicemails? I don't even know two people. And so it begins.
"Hey Magen, it's Lauren. I locked myself out of your house. I'm at Jack in the Box using some Mexican guy's cell phone. I think your phone is dead. I guess I'll just wait outside."
Next message.
"Hi Magen, it's Mom. Lauren said she's locked out..? What's going on?"
End of new messages.
Sigh. I am now on my knees and face down in the parking lot wondering why I had given my sister the only set of keys to the house. My coworker spots me on the ground and walks over to me.
"What's wrong? Why are you on your knees and face down in the parking lot?"
I explain what happened, red in the face, holding back nary a swear. She kindly agrees to help me out and we head to the house to assess the situation. We finally arrive, and after attempting to determine how my sister could sit outside for FOUR hours and have neither gathered nuts/berries nor whittled a key from a nearby tree, we decide on calling a locksmith.
Thirty-five minutes and several cigarettes later (I took up smoking for dramatic effect), our swashbuckling hero arrives. Complete with an underwhelming tool kit that looks alarmingly like mine (which consists of a hammer from Ikea, a rusty wrench, and some jelly beans), flip flops (shouldn't he have on boots or something?), and wearing what I'm almost certain is woman's perfume, he scratches his head and tells us he can't pick the lock. Of course he can't. Why would a locksmith be able to pick a lock? It's not like he's, oh I don't know, a LOCKSMITH or something! I finally understand how Nancy Kerrigan must've felt. Why me, indeed.
His weirdly excessive giggling and total incompetence notwithstanding (and to make a long, not-so-exciting story shorter), I will give him credit for finally shimmying his way into a second story window. After he charged us an extra seventy-five bucks, of course.
The moral of the story, as anti-climactic as it may be, is: getting locked out is only funny when it's not happening to you.
Employment Diaries
Part 1: Reefer Madness
I got the job.
Yay.
Excuse me for not being more excited, but my future employer (I start next Monday) required that I go for a drug screen prior to my start date. Now, many of you would think that this would be fairly standard procedure for those of us that work in or around any sort of laboratory setting. That any respectable scientific company would want to cover their bases and not hire someone that's going to rip-off the lab's supply of ether, acetone, or phosphorous in an attempt to stock their basement meth lab. But you'd be wrong.
At first, I thought it was odd too. Coming out of college, I heard stories about people getting drug tested prior to employment, and have to admit that I was pretty damn nervous. Don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't selling all my worldly possessions and preparing to join the Rastafari movement or anything, but come on, it's college.
I eventually got a job at a local biotech company and prepared myself for the worst (cranberry juice-- a wondrous elixir!). They sent me to a hospital at which a series of nurses and doctors performed the most comprehensive full physical I'd ever had. Since the job involved working with potentially infectious strains of viruses, they had to make sure we were 100% healthy, presumably to avoid any future lawsuits. The doctor even tested my lung capacity by making me blow into one of those Fisher Price looking tube things after running on a treadmill. But even after all the rigamarole, surprisingly, there was no drug test.
It wasn't until I'd worked in the industry for a couple more years that I realized why none of the companies I worked for ever performed drug tests: scientists REALLY like pot. Now, I know this seems like a specious and outrageous claim. But I can assure you that the reality is that some of the most brilliant scientific minds I've ever come across were 4:20 celebratin', Bob Marley t-shirt wearin', water bong ownin', Snoop Dogg listenin', certifiable potheads. They don't perform drug tests at these companies because they know they'd lose a third (or more) of their work force! It's a rabbit hole most employers don't want to explore.
Now, the idea of scientists (or any great thinkers for that matter) smoking weed is not a new idea, nor was it to me at the time. What surprised me was the overwhelming, unspoken tolerance of it. That corporate America (or at least the biotech sector) was in essence giving the thumbs up (or, more appropriately, the "hang loose" sign) to drug use.
So I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed that I had to go for a drug screen for my new job. Not that I'm worried, all they'll find in my urine is too much caffeine and perhaps a few traces of last night's pale ales. But really, how good of a company can it be if there aren't any stoners? Why has this company not caught on to the importance of mind-expanding psychotropics in the field of science?
I'm not exactly sure what I've gotten myself into, but I guess I'll have to wait and see. I know one thing for sure: I'll have to start bringing my own snacks.
I got the job.
Yay.
Excuse me for not being more excited, but my future employer (I start next Monday) required that I go for a drug screen prior to my start date. Now, many of you would think that this would be fairly standard procedure for those of us that work in or around any sort of laboratory setting. That any respectable scientific company would want to cover their bases and not hire someone that's going to rip-off the lab's supply of ether, acetone, or phosphorous in an attempt to stock their basement meth lab. But you'd be wrong.
At first, I thought it was odd too. Coming out of college, I heard stories about people getting drug tested prior to employment, and have to admit that I was pretty damn nervous. Don't get the wrong idea, I wasn't selling all my worldly possessions and preparing to join the Rastafari movement or anything, but come on, it's college.
I eventually got a job at a local biotech company and prepared myself for the worst (cranberry juice-- a wondrous elixir!). They sent me to a hospital at which a series of nurses and doctors performed the most comprehensive full physical I'd ever had. Since the job involved working with potentially infectious strains of viruses, they had to make sure we were 100% healthy, presumably to avoid any future lawsuits. The doctor even tested my lung capacity by making me blow into one of those Fisher Price looking tube things after running on a treadmill. But even after all the rigamarole, surprisingly, there was no drug test.
It wasn't until I'd worked in the industry for a couple more years that I realized why none of the companies I worked for ever performed drug tests: scientists REALLY like pot. Now, I know this seems like a specious and outrageous claim. But I can assure you that the reality is that some of the most brilliant scientific minds I've ever come across were 4:20 celebratin', Bob Marley t-shirt wearin', water bong ownin', Snoop Dogg listenin', certifiable potheads. They don't perform drug tests at these companies because they know they'd lose a third (or more) of their work force! It's a rabbit hole most employers don't want to explore.
Now, the idea of scientists (or any great thinkers for that matter) smoking weed is not a new idea, nor was it to me at the time. What surprised me was the overwhelming, unspoken tolerance of it. That corporate America (or at least the biotech sector) was in essence giving the thumbs up (or, more appropriately, the "hang loose" sign) to drug use.
So I have to admit, I was a bit disappointed that I had to go for a drug screen for my new job. Not that I'm worried, all they'll find in my urine is too much caffeine and perhaps a few traces of last night's pale ales. But really, how good of a company can it be if there aren't any stoners? Why has this company not caught on to the importance of mind-expanding psychotropics in the field of science?
I'm not exactly sure what I've gotten myself into, but I guess I'll have to wait and see. I know one thing for sure: I'll have to start bringing my own snacks.
Unemployment Diaries
Part Two: Deceit, Plasma, and Kanye West
What I failed to mention in my previous post about interviewing was that listening to "Stronger" by Kanye West before heading into a job interview is a spectacular idea. This way, "th-that-that-that that don't kill, can only make me stronger" will be thumping in your head the whole time you're in the hot seat. It works on two levels: 1.) you're not listening to what Captain Mc-Hiring Pants is saying, and 2.) it's a good anthem for easing yourself back into the sucktitude of the working world.
Speaking of sucktitude, I had an interview today. As it turns out, I could very well be a full time nit-picker (a figurative one, thankfully) as a Quality Specialist. Watch out world, I Specialize in Quality! Get the hell out of my way or I will push you back down into that reprehensible gutter from whence you came!
And, what's best about the job is that I get to work with plasma. Again.
It's times like these that I wish I worked in advertising. How fun would it be to come up with fresh, new slogans for marketing plasma to John Q. Consumer?
Plasma: It's blood without the stains! Now, with even fewer red blood cells!
Plasma: It's the part of your blood that's not Communist!
Plasma: Even crackheads can donate!
Scene opens at a school circa 1952 with awkward, "square" boy crying. Popular and more attractive 50's style girl approaches.
"Gee, what's the matter, Jimmy?"
"Nothing Paula. I just got this big zit today and I feel ugly."
"Well Jimmy, teacher says everyone looks the same on the inside. Maybe you should go donate plasma!"
"Great idea, Paula!"
They high five.
End scene.
Because I have experience with "human juice", as we so lovingly called it, I'm extra-qualified. And I don't mean I worked with little, nancy bits of plasma. I mean I worked with enough plasma in which to drown a horse. We tested for "bad" proteins that were present in the blood. Antibodies that, if present in high enough numbers, generally meant you could expect a heart attack or stroke or septic shock in the near future. We made it into a game called, "You're Going to Die Soon." I'm just kidding, that would be horrible. Incredibly funny and entertaining, but horrible.
Though it seems like a glamorous and romantic job, in reality plasma is a wretched, vile liquid. It's bright yellow and reminiscent of cold egg drop soup. It smells like a perfectly balanced combination of wet dog and raw hamburger meat. (I can't take full credit for that description, it was the general consensus--after much ado--of my former lab rat employee pals that that's what it smelled like.)
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to making its acquaintance again. It's been far too long, my old friend. This, of course, is assuming that I even get the job. If I do though, be sure to check out my next post which will be entitled, "Employment Diaries, Part One. My Life as a Corporate Whore: The Homogenization of America (and next, the World!). Who Wants a Jamba Juice?"
What I failed to mention in my previous post about interviewing was that listening to "Stronger" by Kanye West before heading into a job interview is a spectacular idea. This way, "th-that-that-that that don't kill, can only make me stronger" will be thumping in your head the whole time you're in the hot seat. It works on two levels: 1.) you're not listening to what Captain Mc-Hiring Pants is saying, and 2.) it's a good anthem for easing yourself back into the sucktitude of the working world.
Speaking of sucktitude, I had an interview today. As it turns out, I could very well be a full time nit-picker (a figurative one, thankfully) as a Quality Specialist. Watch out world, I Specialize in Quality! Get the hell out of my way or I will push you back down into that reprehensible gutter from whence you came!
And, what's best about the job is that I get to work with plasma. Again.
It's times like these that I wish I worked in advertising. How fun would it be to come up with fresh, new slogans for marketing plasma to John Q. Consumer?
Plasma: It's blood without the stains! Now, with even fewer red blood cells!
Plasma: It's the part of your blood that's not Communist!
Plasma: Even crackheads can donate!
Scene opens at a school circa 1952 with awkward, "square" boy crying. Popular and more attractive 50's style girl approaches.
"Gee, what's the matter, Jimmy?"
"Nothing Paula. I just got this big zit today and I feel ugly."
"Well Jimmy, teacher says everyone looks the same on the inside. Maybe you should go donate plasma!"
"Great idea, Paula!"
They high five.
End scene.
Because I have experience with "human juice", as we so lovingly called it, I'm extra-qualified. And I don't mean I worked with little, nancy bits of plasma. I mean I worked with enough plasma in which to drown a horse. We tested for "bad" proteins that were present in the blood. Antibodies that, if present in high enough numbers, generally meant you could expect a heart attack or stroke or septic shock in the near future. We made it into a game called, "You're Going to Die Soon." I'm just kidding, that would be horrible. Incredibly funny and entertaining, but horrible.
Though it seems like a glamorous and romantic job, in reality plasma is a wretched, vile liquid. It's bright yellow and reminiscent of cold egg drop soup. It smells like a perfectly balanced combination of wet dog and raw hamburger meat. (I can't take full credit for that description, it was the general consensus--after much ado--of my former lab rat employee pals that that's what it smelled like.)
Needless to say, I'm looking forward to making its acquaintance again. It's been far too long, my old friend. This, of course, is assuming that I even get the job. If I do though, be sure to check out my next post which will be entitled, "Employment Diaries, Part One. My Life as a Corporate Whore: The Homogenization of America (and next, the World!). Who Wants a Jamba Juice?"
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