The week before I went on vacation, the Jews had a Board bonding dinner. Miss R generously offered to host the dinner at her residence. I always like going to chez JR as I believe it is haunted. I have yet to find any proof to this hypothesis, but at the very least, it has great knockers. (Am I getting on the right track here, Twiga?)
I had been very sick and congested for a week by the time I went to the dinner, and this was apparently affecting my voice. Early in the night, CK astutely observed that my voice was deep and sexy. (They don't give the VP job to chimps!) Later in the night, she agreed that while my voice had gotten a bit deeper, it had pretty much maxed out on sexy. I tried to note how much wine it took to help her reach this conclusion, but I had too much wine and forgot. Nevertheless, I was eager to recover before exploring the depths of the Caribbean.
Call Mr. Plow.
That's my name.
That name again,
Is Mr. Plow.
--The Simpsons
On my last day at Pacific Bell, my boss was so upset I was leaving, she couldn't bear to attend my going away lunch. I always made her laugh when we went out to lunch, so I know she was greatly disappointed in missing the festivities. (Getting her to laugh was a challenge of mine from the start. A colleague warned me that she was humor-impaired!) The rest of us managed to enjoy ourselves despite her absence. For venue, I chose the place where I had my welcoming lunch. Sort of a full circle, womb to tomb, cradle to grave, sperm to worm, chicken and egg sandwich, poetic thing.
There were eight of us at lunch. At under 18 months, I had been with the company the longest, except for our administrative person. My pal, Dr. N joined the company shortly after me, and she quit the day after I did. Several weeks later, the administrative person left as well. A few people also left my project for better positions, so within a month of my departure, at least 5 people departed and rumor has it that there are more to follow. When Dilbert's Dad left, I noted that the rest of us moved up one spot on the comedy ladder. I guess when I left, the ladder collapsed.
Marge, if you're going to yell at me whenever I do stupid things, then I'm just going to have to stop doing stupid things.
--The Simpsons
Later that night, after packing and repacking a few more times, and ensuring that I had my expired passport, I hopped on a redeye to Miami. I had to spend seven hours at the airport until my flight to Providenciales, Turks and Caicos. I couldn't find any live tambourine bands in the airport entertainment booth, so to pass the time, I read my book and memorized the CNN news report.
After what seemed like an eternity, I finally arrived at the resort, was given a briefing about where I needed to be, and when, and was led to my room. Shortly thereafter, I discovered a circus trapeze; I couldn't wait to try it so I'd have something with which to impress Grandma. All my life, Grandma has been encouraging me to Seize the Per Diem, and Go For It, and it's been harder and harder to affect her. She's become way too complacent with reports of my adventures in SCUBA diving, skydiving, parasailing, hang gliding, eating sushi, and crossing the street. I have to keep raising the ante, or lowering the limbo bar (roll your own metaphor) to get her attention. I knew the trapeze would be the perfect dessert after a meal of SCUBA stories.
I spent most of the week in Provo dizzy with congestion, jet lag, nitrogen narcosis, and lack of sleep. In other words, business as usual. These were also perfect conditions for SCUBA diving. Not! I was very concerned about blowing an eardrum. At 100 feet, this would have resulted in a mouth full of salt water, and I'm trying to moderate my sodium intake. Also, I never heard of a deaf astronaut.
I'm very accustomed to playing sports while injured. Running around with bruises, skinned knees, and the heartbreak of psoriasis is part of being a boy. My rotator cuff has needed a new cuff link for several years, yet I still manage to set off the radar detectors while serving. Also, I rolled my ankle in a tournament about six years ago, and nothing short of a ski boot seems able to prevent occasional reinjury while playing tennis.
With my eardrums, however, I am much more circumspect. I visited the SCUBA doctor almost every day and had him look in my ears. Since I am a certified diver, he kept encouraging me to keep on diving despite the pain and the incessant clicking. Either my problems were not as bad as I imagined, or he was just happy to be correct almost every time when I asked him how many fingers I was holding against the opposite ear.
To alleviate my congestion, I was drinking enough cough syrup to entertain Bill Murray in a cab. I was also swallowing pseudoephedrine hydrochloride pills as if they were dinner mints. Unfortunately, neither gave me any sustained relief. Despite the discomfort, I made 10 dives.
One mitigation was that I didn't have a roommate for most of the week. That would have made my nights even more uncomfortable. One night, however, I returned to my room to find someone asleep in the other bed. I was concerned about disturbing him with my wake-up knock at 7 AM, and frequent visits to the medicine cabinet, but these rapidly became the least of my worries. This guy snored so loudly that the room shook! He must have been on the Olympic snoring team. Not only that, but he was from Montreal, so he snored in French. I regretted that I didn't go to school in California and learn duck and cover skills. Fortunately, he recognized my discomfort (I think my waking him every few minutes was a big clue) and he moved out after one night.
One of my diving goals was to find some sharks as some of my comrades did. In spite of the nosebleed I had at 90 feet, I never did find any. (I think Grandma paid someone to feed tourists to them on the other side of the island.) I did, however, find a lobster at 100 feet. I didn't have my bib with me so I let it go.
After every dive, the boat captain commented that my mask was very foggy. I assured him that I thoroughly drenched my mask with spit before each dive to prevent fogging, but he was doubtful. One day, he gave me a present of his own professional French SCUBA-dude spit. All through the dive, I had dreams of my favorite French foods: French toast, French fries, French dressing, and French bread pizza. Alas, my mask suffered the same foggy fate. In retaliation, he advised me to coat the inside of my mask with toothpaste. This worked like a charm and with the added benefit of clearer skies, my last few dives made the whole week worthwhile. I made some comment about also benefiting from cavity protection, but the guy didn't get it. Either it lost something in the translation, or they don't have Crest commercials in France.
One evening, I made my first night dive. We all adorned green glow sticks, in case we got lost. I never found any signs of bioluminescence, for which I was searching, but I enjoyed myself nonetheless. Upon our return, we were welcomed with a BBQ party complete with chicken, hamburgers, weenies, cheese, beer and wine. It was a very festive celebration. In honor of my congestion, I had forgone alcohol for the week until this point. However, since the week was now half over, and I showed no signs of improvement, I threw in the towel and chased down the chicken and burgers with a few drinks. Besides, I was scheduled to perform in 3 scenes in the show that night and I figured my performance could use all the help it could get.
After eating, I rushed back to my room to shower and chase some of the chill out of my bones. I finished and raced to the dressing room just in time to prepare for my first performance. Things were very hectic back there. With all of the strange costumed people getting ready I felt as if I were in the circus. I managed to stay out of harm's way and get through the first skit without too much effort.
My second performance was more inspired. Humility and demureness prevent me from going into too much detail here. Suffice it to say that I was glad I had on my underwear that's fun to wear. I guess Mom's admonition to wear clean underwear pays off in places other than accidents. Several people approached me and mentioned something about sending blackmail photos to the Astronaut Office, but I called their bluffs, and never heard from them again.
A few hours before I had to leave for the airport, I took out a sailboat. I was having a great time buzzing along looking for dolphins until the boat started breaking. The traveler broke in the back, and it took a surprising amount of effort to manage the sail with the loss of mechanical advantage. The sailor boy was impressed with my heroic rescue and I remarked that I felt like Santiago. He told me that Santiago died and he lost the fish so I shouldn't be too enamored with that comparison, but I was too tired and loaded with lactic acid to remember if he was correct.
At my last meal in Provo, I met a guy who was an investment banker in NY. He filled me in on what I missed back home, and informed me that the Dow hit record levels every day I was gone. In return, I told him which desserts to avoid, where the best dive spots were located, and which girls had bellybutton rings and butterfly tattoos on their butts. (Relax, Mom. That last part is not entirely true. They weren't all butterflies.)
Homer, it's only 4:30. The Little Rascals don't go on until 6:00.
I know. I'm taping it.
--The Simpsons
The day after I returned home, I started work at a new job. At one month of service, I very much enjoy the change. I get to drive on California's newest highway, and the commute takes much less time with less traffic than my former one. I am already benefiting from the extra beauty sleep this savings affords.
The company honored me with business cards on my first day. This benefit usually takes weeks to months of filling out forms in triplicate. I was very impressed that they were so sure of their name, and my name, that the cards were ordered before I arrived. Actually, their name has just changed, but I'm pretty sure mine is still the same.
One big surprise, and a major bonus, is that they truck in bagels twice a week. All the best flavors and sun dried tomato shmear as well! Between the bagels, and not working out 3-4 times per week as I did at the old place, I've already gained a few pounds. Grandma says that's a good thing, but I'm hoping my tennis game doesn't suffer as a result.
Another advantage of working for my new employer is that many of the other employees were nurses in previous lives. I'm hoping I can put some of my favorite M*A*S*H lines to good use. Also, as I expected, I did more work in my first day at the new place than I did in too many weeks at my old place. It feels good to be exercising my mind again; I was worried about atrophy from disuse. Additionally, I found some ducks at the new place so I don't miss the ones I left behind as much.
One more distinction lies in the form of sexual harassment training. Over one year ago I was subjected to four hours of nonsense that resembled Kindergarten. Don't play with anyone else's blocks. Don't joke about blocks. Don't talk about blocks. Don't use screen savers that reveal too much of someone's blocks. If you see people playing with each other's blocks, report them to the principal. To be on the safe side, don't even play with your own blocks. In contrast, a few weeks ago I read a two-sided piece of paper that reminded me to act like an adult. Ah, the joys of a no-nonsense small company.
Of course, there are things I miss about working at the phone company. Near the top of the list are Dr. L's post lunch Kisses, and her accompaniment in duets of "I Feel Pretty." I wasn't even allowed to think things like that at the phone company let alone type them.
How do you do that thing with your feet?
The Moonwalk?
No, that thing with your feet!
--The Simpsons
Shortly after returning home, the Board of Directors of Stanford Hillel accepted me as an intern. I immediately called my Grandparents and told them I got into Stanford. They're very proud of me. Eric guesses they needed evidence that MIT was not a fluke, but I think the source of their pride is elsewhere. Stanford Hillel is named after a famous local football team, and an even more famous vegetarian sandwich. My Grands are big fans of both.
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