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.