Once more unto the beach, dear friends.

I saw a truck on the way to work this morning, apparently driven by a distributor for Rappala. Emblazoned on the side of the vehicle was the slogan "Prepare for battle" alongside a rendering of what I assume was supposed to be an especially vicious looking game fish of some kind. Now, in spite of whatever urbanite contempt I might hold for The Outdoors, I consider fishing to be a pleasant enough pastime and its material rewards more than delicious. Moreover, when the War on the Ocean is finally declared, I'll be among the first to enlist. Just the same, it seems like elevating anything you can do while listening to a baseball game and drinking Keystone Light to some sort of aquatic Thermopylae seems like self-importance. Until the DNR repeals catch-limits on anything but non-combatants, you’re not really a patriot to the dry land, you’re a tourist to an enemy nation.

Lunch today was a corned beef sandwich with cole slaw. Ordinarily, this is exactly the kind of bastard offspring of Ruben and Rachel that would enrage me, but I made an exception in this case because the good people at The Eatery made no claim to either proper sandwich designation. It was good. Horseradish in the slaw dressing.

Never ask, "Where will you be having the sigmoidoscopy done?"

Stevie and I went to the outlet mall on Saturday to buy me some work clothes. It turns out that I suck the fun out of the outlet mall. Unsurprising. Lane Bryant is not as good a place to meet women as you might imagine. I bought some pants, but everything else fell above the "cheaper on eBay" price point. I already won a bid on a new coat and some "only worn once" work shoes.

Ms. Krantz invited us to the drive-in Saturday night, and honestly, I had at least mild interest in each part of the triple feature, but since Stevie can barely muster the attention span necessary for a full episode of HGTV's House Hunters, we eventually eschewed the movies in favor of an evening with Missy and her cousin Maggie in Apple Valley. The hotel bar is a cheap and reliable good time, though for the life of me, I can't imagine who stays at a hotel in Apple Valley.

I got new front tires for my car this weekend, and was reminded what a pleasure driving is when my car isn't shaking like an old-timey weight-loss machine. New tires for your car, as my dad often says, are like new laces for your shoes. All the pleasure and luxury, with none of the painful expense or break-in period. Someone kindly send an e-mail to me about three years ago, telling me to start a blog of all my dad's earthy wisdom so that I can option it into a book deal and a sitcom pilot.

I'm back to work, and pleased to find that I haven't forgotten everything over the weekend. They're selling some kind of Thai beef and noodle dish in the Eatery today, but it smells suspiciously like beef stroganoff. I will be having diet cola and granola bars.

My body Thetans are ISO 9001 certified.

We took an online course called "Introduction to Operational Excellence" this week. For the life of me, I couldn't tell you what it was about. That's really saying something, because it sounds like it should have been about "doing stuff awesome," which is kind of my thing. There seems to be a whole section of corporate America who are so far removed from the actual productive stream that they're free to spend their well paid time inventing vague fanciful phrases about how to make yourself better. And these always sound suspiciously like the kind of things cult leaders say.

At a certain level, corporate rhetoric becomes almost indistinguishable from the doctrine of the Church of Scientology.

It's come to my attention while learning the jargon of my new job that, according to Wiktionary, at least, the words "preventive" and "preventative" are equally valid and identical in usage. Naturally I have fallen into an instant and unwarranted dislike and distrust of those people who choose the less succinct four-syllable variant. Whenever one of my co-workers seems to stumble over the distinction, I prompt them helpfully that the word they're looking for is "preventatative."

Much of the work of the new job is done in a sprawling and poorly written database of insurance policies called "internet benefits at a glance" or IBAAG, for short. I've pointed out to more than one person that the tool is not actually accessible through the internet and suggested changing the common term to "database benefits at a glance."

No one seems to be biting on that one, though it's not clear whether they're on to me or not.

I'm here all week. Well, sixteen weeks, I guess. Tip your trainers.

I realized today that it's probably for the best that training is 16 weeks, if only because that will probably give me enough time in the training room to make all the jokes for which the job offers a regular opportunity. That way I won't be tempted to drop one-liners on the actual callers.

Caller: How would I be covered for a routine mammogram?

Me: Well... I guess I would imagine there's some kind of curtain.

Unprofessional.

Our regular trainer is back today, and he doesn't seem to have the appreciation of my (or anyone else's) sense of humor that his understudy did. Northside is not fazed by the change.

Trainer (looking at an example policy with the name "Vander Schaffe"): Okay, not let's look at Ms. Van-- Vander...

Class: Schaffe.

Northside: Shut yo' mouth.

Me: Just talkin' bout Schaffe.

(high fives ensue)

Rad life, sweet job.

Today, at work, we learned about how to quote benefits for x-rays and other radiological procedures when they're not routine or preventive. The learning module was titled "Quoting Sick Rad Benefits." It turned out to be a little disappointing.

I also tried the sushi from "The Eatery," for which "a little disappointing" would be a very charitable description.

I got my first taste of the actual job today; it doesn't seem difficult, but it also doesn't seem like it will provide consistent fodder for my blog.

I should probably develop some inexpensive hobbies.

In a group, I often: C) give whatever answer makes me seem like a supervillain.

Apparently later this week, we're going to be taking a course on something called "Behavioral Analytics," which sounds suspiciously like one of those interdepartmental classes at the U of M that only existed to give PR and Marketting majors a math credit.

In preparation, the training class took a personality test today. It took about half an hour, for everyone but Apple Polisher, who, apparently paralyzed by the idea of "no right or wrong answers" seems to be frozen in deliberation at each question like a TBI patient in the cereal aisle.

Each question had six answers for us to rank in order of preference, and it only look three or four questions before the results became fairly transparent. I would bet money that, when our results are revealed on Friday, they divide us neatly into six categories.

I suppressed my instinct to intentionally bury the needle on the "cold and logical" category, mostly because the quiz inexpliccably tied all the answers involving "clear thinking" and "logic" together with phrases like "hard work." I tend to think that when we receive our officially sanctioned personalities, mine will be roughly equal parts "evil robot," "grifter," and "shiftless layabout."

Those sound bad, but the other categories are basically "mama's boy," "hippy," and "sociopath" as near as I can tell, so at least I picked the answers that imply that I've got people skills.

"Oh, that Macaroni Grille is usually so good."

After an hour listening to fully trained folk of my pay grade, it is my preliminary determination that this job is no more difficult or demanding than the one I did at General Mills. It is less interesting, by virtue of my answers to customers' questions never involving the phrase "not enough butter," but it didn't appear, even on a Monday (purportedly the busiest day of the week) to be anything beyond my capacities.

I nonetheless embrace my remaining 14 weeks of training, if only from a purely economic standpoint. If I'm not doing any real work for my pay, then it's a purer profit for me, even though doing actual work might make the days go faster.

I finally identified the source of my immediate affinity for our substitute trainer. He has a certain aloofness to the corporate culture that seemed familiar, but unplaceable. It turns out, he was a journalism major.

I used to say that if my lifetime of cordial indifference toward my fellow man is eventually punished by an eternity in hell, my own hell would be an endless drive through the suburbs with a full bladder and no place in sight to stop. After a customer care exercise last week, I've revised my theory. I would be in a warm, slightly humid room with nothing to eat or drink, seated by an infinite number of Barbs while a supervisor asks everyone in the room to give an example of a time they received poor customer service. My soul would then be shredded away, century after century by rambling, poorly articulated stories filled petty bitching and baseless feelings of inscrutable entitlement.

It's bizarre to me that I've always excelled in customer service jobs, despite my own ideal consumer experience being one that is as cold, impersonal and efficient as possible. Unless the transaction involves bourbon or pancakes; then it's okay to call me "hun."

I forgot to bring any lunch, and I can't commit to the slippery slope of signing up for an automatic payroll deduction account at the Eatery.

Why would you wake up and go to work when you could stay here and make out with Ms. Pacman?

Yesterday was my first test in "going out on a school night" since the start of the new job. The reliably fun Ms. Krantz joined Stevie and me at Sauce for a pleasant evening that ended, in a fit of admirable responsibility, just before midnight. I felt acceptably rested this morning and strangely enough, Stevie woke up before I did. I even managed a shower.

Word around The Internets has Jill rolling into town some time today. Experience tells me she won't be available to entertain non-relatives until some time this weekend, but since my first week's pay doesn't hit my account until just after midnight tonight, I doubt I'd be up for fun this evening even if I hadn't gone out last night.

I've gotten a series of calls from Book Boss over the past week or so, asking me to send my progress on the most recent 237-page section of longhand manuscript she dropped on me a few weeks ago. Since one of the first messages she left told me that, because my last invoice included drive-time to get to the meeting with her, she's denying an hour of charges and declaring herself a credit. Let me assure you, Internet, it's hard enough to begin slogging through that rambling waste of pencil lead before learning that my first hour of work would be unpaid.

Combine that with the fact that she recently cut my hourly rate again, this time to less than that of my full time job, I'm seriously considering extricating myself from the project. If anyone can suggest a classier way of doing so than changing my phone number, feel free to lay it on me.

Keep in mind, I probably need a new phone anyway.

Role call

My training class, presented in unflattering nicknames:

Skinny Blonde Barb (and I don't care)
Bible College
Art Teacher
Sassy Black Lady
Old Nerd
Craft Fair Willy Nelson
Apple Polisher
Northside
Yokel Barb
Clueless Barb
Old Bag

I'm not sure Taco Bell for breakfast is an improvement over hot dogs.

Yesterday was my first paid day off in about 18 months. I spent the majority of the day watching sattelite TV and scratching the many mosquito bites I accrued over the previous two days of sitting on the lawn/garage floor/porch/boulevard of an industrial park in Coon Rapids.

A couple of times this weekend, I noticed some sort of unidentified varmint in the front yard. From the glimpses I've managed, it appears to be about half again the length of a squirrel and maybe four or five times the overall size. It's dark brown to black in color. All of this has led me to rule out woodchuck, squirrel and small raccoon from the list of suspects. I couldn't swear to the presence of a puffy tail, so muskrat is still a contender, but if anyone else has an idea, I'm interested to hear it.

I noticed today that the cafeteria at my new work is termed officially, "The Eatery," which makes me like it less in spite of the undeniable value of the pita and hummus plate for a mere two dollars fifty. That's all academic really, because eating is a social activity and therefore not something I generally do while at work.

Week two has brought us a new trainer. I like him better than the regular guy, who seems like a boring version of Ira Glass. I know what I said, and I meant it.

He'll be back Monday.

Mash the keypad with your paycheck

As of this morning, my cell phone service was disconnected for the first time in many years. That means I've gone 15 months paying the bill without a full time job, only to have my phone shut off a week before my first payday at the new job. Luckily, my last paycheck from the interim temp job should be enough to pay the past-due amount, and that arrives in my bank account some time around bar-close tonight.

It's become clear over these first few days of training that 16 weeks is too long. I'm more than happy to be collecting a paycheck without being in the productive stream, but they hired a dozen people with years, in some cases decades of industry experience, and it's still taking a half a day to get through the course on the search function on the help menu of one of the dozen or so programs that we'll be using on the job.

I'm not unsympathetic to the fact that many of those dozen people are old enough to have a difficult time setting the clock on their VCRs. And to, you know... still own VCRs.

There is, apparently, between the several corporate websites and the intranet databases available to employees, a vast amount of information available to me about my new job. Among this sprawling treasure trove of data, however, there seems to be no sign of a map of the building where I work, especially one marking the location of a damn drinking fountain. Every office building in the western world has a drinking fountain outside every pair of public restrooms, but in the corporate cathedral to healthcare consumerism where I now spend 40 hours a week, there isn't even a water cooler to be found.

I don't care; I'll drink from the toilet before I spend $1.35 on a bottle of water.