Stuck at work

My carpool is running late. (Does two people really count as a carpool? I mean, it’s only one extra person in the vehicle. Hardly what I’d call a “pool”) I’ve finished all my work for the day, and now I’m sitting here, listening to Van Halen, sipping a bottle of water, and just feeling like I need to do something. Anything, really. And what better thing to do than babble to my blog readers? Aren’t you feeling just so lucky right now?

So…what to talk about…hm.

Oh, the Van Halen song just ended (“How Do I Know When It’s Love”) and now I’ve decided to put on my Jack Devine CD. Highly recommend this puppy if you ever get a chance. Kind of an alt-rock album. You can catch it over at CD Baby for a good price. (If you aren’t regularly checking out music at CD Baby, you should be FLOGGED) I spend too much money there, but I’m okay with that. At least it mostly goes back to the artists, yo.

I have bio lecture tonight. My professor is a nut. Seriously. The guy cracks us up continuously, and we have a hard time imagining him doing anything remotely biology-related as his day-to-day job. However, he does work in some lab doing some kind of testing…somewhere. Probably Lawrence Livermore. Lord help us all.

Why do we think he’s a nut? (I say “we” because everyone in the class feels the exact same way about him. I’m not walking alone here.) Well. Hm. Ok, I think the best example I can give you is this lab assignment we had where we had to test enzymatic reactions using different pH and temperature variables. At the end of the night, we compiled all our data on the chalkboard into one large chart, which we were to all copy down and take home to do calculations on and report back with. There were some negative numbers up there, which were going to give us pains while calculating. When asked about this, Dr. Faranak said “There shouldn’t be any negative numbers up there. That’s not possible.” One of the groups that got negative numbers in their testing invited him over to check their machine and test their sample himself. After several minutes of fiddling and fussing, Dr. Faranak could not get the machine (or any of the others for that matter) to register a positive number. He then declared that we would ignore these figures because they weren’t necessary after all.

In other words…we were to remove the data because he just didn’t like it. He said as much. “Take out the negative numbers. I don’t like them…too messy.” I didn’t stop laughing for about five minutes after that, when my lab partner Becca, the sassiest girl on the planet, said in a voice sounding eerily close to Dr. Faranak’s own Pakistani accent…”And the number seven! I don’t like that either. We will throw that out as well. Oh, and I don’t like red. Please don’t use red anywhere.”

We determined that the man is just a nutbasket and lab is one giant playground. It’s only 20% of our grade. He swears that our lab reports will be future resumés. Because when applying for any job, regardless of what it is, a neatly-typed and labeled report on the effects of boiling geranium leaves in methanol will just seal our fates as Amazingly Stupendous Human Beings. Obviously because I can test any number of enzymes for their refraction rate, I am a valuable commodity. Hire me now people! I’m going fast!

In other news…

I keep a well-stocked candy dish on my desk around Halloween. Well, that’s a lie. I keep a candy jar all year ’round, but it usually just contains what I call “Ghetto Mix”…those cheap unbranded bags of mixed candies you get at Wal-Mart for two bucks a pound. Featuring the everpopular Ghetto Jawbreakers. Hey, when you have sugar-hungry coworkers ready to eat you out of your office, you buy what you can afford to supply. Plus it keeps me from wanting to snack on the shit all day.

This time of the year, I switch to using my large wooden inbox as a candy dish. That way I can dump in a load of Halloween candy for everyone to fiddle with, and I use my candy jar to hold vast quantities of candy corn. Last year, I kept a constant supply of both candy corn and other Halloween treats, and it took me until Christmas to get rid of it all. This year, it’s all I can do to keep the shit stocked. It’s like I’m working with greedy children. I come in every day to see my candy just ravaged all to hell. People love to tell me “Oh I’ll bring in some candy for you!”…I have yet to see even one piece of Dubble Bubble. And if they’re not pretending to care, they’re criticizing me for my candy selection. “You need more cinnamon candies in here. I like cinnamon.” “I would prefer chocolate that didn’t have nuts in it. Can you keep that in mind?” “Oh…you’re out of purple Tootsie Pops. Um, can you make sure you get a bag with extras of that flavor?”

What. The. Fuck.

So I’m providing FREE candy. FREE. F. R. E. E. And they’re going to criticize me for what I give ’em? They get testy because I’m not meeting their personal needs? I must have missed the part where that’s my problem. (God bless Sam Raimi for such a great recyclable line) I’m about ready to just pack up all my goods and hoarde them for myself. Hell, the little yardapes that grace my front porch every Halloween show more gratitude than these primped and besuited folk with whom I work. Man. This place makes working in a gas station the most appealing thing I’ve ever done.

Oh! Oh! What’s that?! Looks like I’m being beckoned from my cube by Jamie. I’m so outta here.

Hey, thanks for listening to me babble. Makes me feel better or something. Yeah.