And no, it don't involve me sleeping with a strapping young Jamaican man, either. Mon.
The 2005 Bloggies have come and gone, and I didn't win a thing. Not even a mention. I thought for sure that I'd at least be nominated for Best Blog By A Large Land Mammal, but I was eeked out of that category by Rhidiculous Rhino The Two-Horned Wonder Of Afrikka. Sheesh, what a sellout. The second horn is glued on, it's patently obvious.
So my first Official Day At The New Job has come and gone, since I'm not counting the three hours I sat in my boss' office for free on Friday just to sort of get my trunk wet and see what was the big deal here. So yesterday I did the whole video-viewing thing, which I'm starting to feel is some sort of universal way of doing things at jobs now.
"Okay, noob, first thing I want to do is see if you have any VCR skills. I'm going to leave you in a dark empty room with a pile of tapes and a VCR/TV combo, and I want to see how long it takes you to get through the stack."
Can anyone say "The Ring"? Anyone? Yes, you there in the back, in the stripey pants.
So, I sat through the basics, and then a smarmy piece of work called "The Diversity Cafe," which made me want to start yelling things at the screen ala Mike and the bots, but I got through it, and spent the rest of the day learning just how much medical jargon and strange abbreviations there actually are, and what really saddens me is that after querying our resident Director of Ops who is hisself quite the accomplished nurse I find that HE doesn't even know what some of that stuff means, and this guy memorizes drug information like it's baseball stats.
So anyhoo. Now is the winter of my discontent made summer by the son of York. But I'm not hunchbacked, withered-armed nor British, nor am I Al Pachino by a stretch. I AM in the process of settling back into a new job, where the surroundings are commonplace and recognisable, the work is part of my normal routine, and I feel comfortable wearing a polo shirt with chinos.
Did I mention that? When the Office Supply Place made us go to oxford shirts I nearly s**t a golden calf. What sort of physical labor is one to accomplish in an oxford shirt? Well, I had no choice, and learned to sweat freely in a button-down collar and chinos. The new job? Polo shirts. The wife got one of those mother-hen laughs at me this morning because I confessed to her that I felt strange wearing a polo shirt to work, that the lack of a pocket was distressing, and that I felt underdressed for work.
Aaaah, unkind Fate.