Commuting and Lunch

My drive to work has turned out to be the most draining experience of my life; I can commute five hours a day, and have to pay five dollars in tolls to get home during bad traffic days. My day starts at four in the morning when I get up, shower, eat a quick bite, and then run off to beat the morning traffic going into Orange County. Most days go smoothly enough, and the morning ride can be somewhat decent, not causing me to rip out my hair. Lately, it has been a little bit rougher because of heavy traffic, making my mornings almost as miserable as my afternoons.

The worst of mornings came when I was driving to get to the freeway and I might have run over a possum in the dark. I never ran over a mammal before, and the shock of it all put me into a horrible depression over the poor (possibly smashed) possum. In my despair, I reached for my lunch pail to drown my sorrow in food; obviously, I must be an emotional eater if after killing a possum, I needed to reach for my lunch. When I started reaching over to find my pail, I grabbed nothing but air. I looked over to see that I forgot my lunch at home. My day was then ruined and my thoughts never strayed too far away from my hunger afterwards.

When my lunch break finally came, I tried to ignore my grumbling stomach, but that lasted all of two minutes of my break. I thought that I would cave and buy something at the vending machines, but when I tried to put in my cash, the machine did nothing but twirl and flaunt its selection of lunch items. I tried several times, and then decided that it must be a broken cash slot, so I went out into my truck to grab some quarters from coin stash. Along with my quarters, I grabbed a random piece of paper from my truck and pulled out my cell phone, chatting wildly to nobody, so that it would seem like I had to go out to get some paperwork from my truck.

After coming back to the vending machines, I tried to get my selection from the machine with the coins, but the machine just continued to twirl, laughing at my attempts. Whenever a coworker of mine would walk over by the machines, I would walk away from the machines so that it didn’t look like I was having issues; I would hate to be the new guy who can’t even operate a vending machine. After skulking back and forth past the vending machine, I realized that I should just give up on getting some type of real meal for lunch.

I remembered that I had eaten a pop tart the week previous, but didn’t finish the whole thing, so I left it in my truck under the mountain of empty water bottles on floor. My hunger had made me desperate, and so I went back outside to go find it. Obviously, I broke out my phone and had a fake phone conversation with an apartment manager who needed my license plate number so that I could have an excuse to go back out to my truck (I don’t know why I am so paranoid to think that all of my coworkers are standing at the receiving bay, laughing at my repetitive trips to my truck, but I am).

The tart was smooshed, stale, and a bit dusty, but it was my only form of sustenance that I could muster up, and after eating the chalky tart, my appetite grew. Now I was completely out of food, so I went back to my cubical to drink copious amounts of water, hoping that the pop tart would swell in response, making me feel fuller. After I had gone through three bottles of water, I was still feeling hungry, and now had to pee like a race horse. I had a few minutes left before I had to go back into the lab, so I chewed and swallowed five pieces of gum, my last possible chance of making it through my day without undergoing ketosis. And even if I did develop ketosis, the gum would hopefully cover the acetone breath of starvation.  The large bolus of gum in my stomach somehow made it so I didn’t die.

After work, I race out to my truck and try to make it onto the freeway so that I can experience heavy traffic. If I stay at work for more than five minutes, heavy traffic bumps up to morbidly obese traffic, and I may as well read a book while parked on the 91. I find that I can get through traffic much quicker if I can find an obnoxiously colored mustang and follow it through traffic as it bobs and weaves though the parking lot of cars. I always try to then pass the obnoxiously colored mustang and beat them to my exit. When behind the car, I always imagine the owner to be a bodaciously voluptuous woman, but whenever I catch up to them, the driver usually ends up to be an overweight woman with horrible bangs, or a man with long hair, whose manboobs looks amazingly similar to actual boobs from a tailing angle.

After I get home, I usually lapse comatose on the couch, and then end up in bed for a few hours, only to repeat the whole process again the next day. I guess that is the life of a commuter. And as much as I love sitting in traffic for a fifth of the day, staring mindlessly at racist bumper stickers and listening to random podcasts, I have realized that I am not meant to be a commuter. So I made an impulse buy and signed a lease for an apartment by a lake, and when I move in, I can start being independent again. Unfortunately, I will be poorer than dirt, but thankfully, being poorer than dirt makes the best of stories.  

When You Are Engulfed in Asians

After living in a desolate wasteland of all white, Mormon Utahans, being in any sort of diverse environment has become somewhat alien to me. So when I started my job at the Irvine Water District, I was surprised at the incredulous amount of Asians that I worked with: Dave, Dave, Tammy, Dave, Alex, Tang, Katrina, and Dave. While they are all very nice individuals, I did feel a little bit out of place, being one of two white people in the lab.

I came in at 6:20 and was given the tour of the lab when I met Dave. Dave, being one of the senior Asians in the lab, has worked there since he was 18, but is now much older than 18 (although I cannot ask how old he is without breaking the law). Dave found me in the lab because he heard somebody who was a little too chipper for six in the morning. He introduced himself and assumed that I had helped myself to the gratis coffee in the break room, but when I told him I don’t drink coffee, he was more than surprised. “I can’t be drinking coffee. I don’t want to stunt my growth.” This statement becomes somewhat ironic while towering over the Asian man.

The rest of the crew filed in after about an hour, somewhat shocked that I commute two hours in and two hours back for work. After we gathered for a group meeting, I noticed something was different about Dave. Whenever he was in front of our boss, he developed an Asian way of speaking. Ls interchanged with Rs, and I just stared over at him in complete stupor. The lab manager couldn’t care less if he had an Asian accent, so why did he put on this front during the group meeting? Obviously I was out of the loop.

My next coworker I came to know was Katrina. She was a temp like me a year before and was hired on for a permanent position in the company, so I knew that if she trained me, I would probably end up on the more likely side of a permanent job. As she taught me, I noticed that she would lunge across the room to every lab station. I can understand the purpose of exercise, being fat before, but this woman was in desperate need of putting on weight, so why would she be lunging everywhere? I asked her why she was lunging and apparently, she is mocked for having the tiniest butt of all her friends, so she lunges to gain a larger backside. “Well, to be completely honest, I don’t have a butt either, but I have butt pads that I wear when I need to fill in my pants a little more. Like when I interviewed for the job here, I wore my fake butt.” On a side note, I feel that my butt boosters pushed me one step above my competition; therefore, getting me my job.

My job is a very simple one. I sit in a chair and wait for water samples to come into the lab. From there, I take the water and run three tests on them: pH, turbidity, and electric conductivity. This seems like it could be rather enjoyable, but the difficulty comes in with the sample types. The water I test mostly comes from the water reclaim, and half of the samples are ground up sewage. One of my coworkers was mixing a batch of raw sewage, splashed some in his eye, and now has an infected eye. How he was able to do that with goggles on, nobody knows, but I assume it is because the sewage is alive and has devious plans for the chemists.

None of my operating procedures require gloves while doing the tests, but every time I grabbed for a water sample, Katrina would scold, “GLOVES!” (Sometimes she says, “GROVES!” but that is neither here nor there).  I had no clue why she was so concerned about me wearing gloves if I made sure that I washed my hands after touching bottles, but she was adamant that I always wear gloves. I soon found out why she was so paranoid about me wearing gloves when she tested the water for suspended solids. In the suspended solids test, water is filtered through paper, and then the filter paper is dried in the oven and then weighed to see how much solid there is in solution. This particular day, she found two white fish in her water samples. I was confused to how a white fish would make it into the water and wanted to know if it was alive and cute, but instead, I learned that white fish is how the Asians classify a used condom. How a used condom was able to make it through the grinders that all of the water goes through before sampling is past all of our comprehension, but somehow, this white fish had managed to make its way through. I thought I was disgusted enough until we had a shout out about finding another white fish. “Two in one day? So clazy!”

Besides that rest of the Daves, I met Tammy half way through the day. She is the most Asian of the entire lab, and works across the lab station from me. I have never seen more than her eyes because I have to peer through shelves of folders to just see her, but she is a nice woman. Actually, she is very similar to the neighbor in Home Improvement; I see nothing but her eyes and she gives me very nice advice about life. Even when I leave the station to go find water samples, I only see the back of her head, which is covered in the straightest, black, Asian hair I have ever seen. It may have only been my first day on the job, but I assume that I will probably only ever see her eyes and the back of her head.

After eight hours of taking water, putting a probe in it, putting a different probe in it, putting another different probe in it, and then going for another water sample, I think that I am rather prepared for this job. Although, most of the time, I just sit, waiting for more water samples to come in. And then I look confused for about an hour, wandering around the lab, trying to find where the other chemists have placed the water samples, and then I go back to trying to probing sewer water. And that is my job: sitting around sewage; waiting for sewage; testing flushed, toiler water and sewage; and sitting around Asians. This is what I call my career.

Yogi's Option: Broken Bones or Dislocated Joints

When I was fat, I used to think that I would get some sort of daily work out by waking up at four in the morning and watching television yoga. Never would I actually participate, but watching made me feel like I was taking a step in a healthy direction. This was my yoga exposure for the longest time, until I actually did P90X yoga and possibly fainted after the two hour video.  On a tangent, I lasted two days on P90X, that is until I did AbRipperX, which caused me to believe that I had a hernia.

My mother started doing yoga in town during my last months up at school. I told my mother that I would come home and do yoga with her, but when I came home, I never really went. Either class was too early, or class was too expensive, I always found a way out of going (which meant just not getting up for class). I managed to dodge the class until my mother offered to pay for three classes for me, which I said yes to immediately due to my extreme ennui.

I was nervous to meet my mother’s instructor because yogis have a reputation of being a little bit insane. From what I had seen on television, yogis are as flexible as rubber, which of course is a sign of insanity. If your foot can stretch behind you and touch your nose, you must have made a pact with Satan, and therefore, you are trying to recruit me to become a Satanist.  But the instructor, Jamie, did not seem like she had made a pact with Satan, so I was put at ease.

Class started off slow, with a lot of downward dog. I am quite capable at downward dog. This of course was so that if I told anyone I can do yoga, I would quickly get into downward dog and then balance on one foot, which convinces most people that you have been doing yoga for the span of time. From downward dog, we did plank, which was also easy enough for me to do. I mean, who can’t just hold themselves stiff as a board? After the first five minutes of going from one pose to the next, I was already tired, and my palms had begun to sweat enough to make my hands slip on the mat.

Downward dog continued every other pose for the next twenty minutes, which would have been ok if I didn’t feel like I needed to pass gas worse than I have ever done before in my life. Each time I would go into downward dog, I would clench my butt cheeks together as hard as I could to keep myself from farting. If we were in a larger studio, I couldn’t care less if I farted, because I could probably lay the blame on someone else. But this studio only had room for one row of yogis, and the square footage of the studio would not allow for proper diffusion of any type of gas, let alone the worst fart I have ever conjured up in my life.

The gas subsided and we started doing strength and balance poses, which I actually did well at. First we did handstands, which I have tried my entire life to be able to do. We start against a wall and kick up to get into a handstand, resting against the wall. I was able to do this after two kicks, but kicked up with such force that I might have possibly kicked a hole in the wall. After a few tries with the wall, I managed to get a full handstand for about five seconds, which then made me whisper, “MA! LOOOOOK! I’M DOOOING IT.” Unfortunately, I lose my ability to whisper when doing yoga and the yoga instructor heard me. Now that I think of it, I never really had the ability to whisper, but my lack of ability worsens when I do yoga.

We balanced on our heads, on our hands, on our knees, on our feet, and I was able to maintain composure through the majority of the class. The worst of it came during the cool down, where we had to enter into happy baby. Happy baby has you on your back, with your feet up in the air, and your hands clasped around your feet. I thought that I was doing the pose beautifully, but it turns out I must have been doing it distractingly wrong. The instructor came over and pushed my knees closer to my chest and then pulled my legs apart. Using every muscle I could muster to keep my pose, my eyes began to cross and my face became crunched up and mangled. “Jacob, find some joy in the pose.” I forced a smile on my face, and took a breath, which made it seem like I was at least trying to find joy in the pose, but really, I found the devil. The class ended with a massage with some aromatic lotion, which made my hour and half suffering worthwhile, and the rest of the class, we laid on the ground with a buckwheat pillow over our eyes.

The next class was early in the morning the day after, which after waking up and not being able to move, seemed rather daunting, but I went anyway because as painful as it was, it was still a work out and I have put on some weight since coming home. When we stepped into the studio, the first thing the instructor asked was if I was sore. I knew that she was asking so that she would focus more on those areas that I was sore. So I smiled and said, “No. Not one bit.”

We went back through our sun salutations and then went into some hip opening exercises. Now, I have done ok in life with closed hips, and they seem to want to stay that way. I couldn’t even do the easiest of poses, and I found my mind wandering. The worst of my distraction came from a poster on one of the walls that went through ever pose imaginable, and I was entranced with the man in the poster. I was relieved that he was wearing dark spandex, because if he was not, I am positive he would have had crotch sweat, which is the worst of all sweats.

One pose I was doing obviously wasn’t on par as to what the instructor thought I could accomplish, so she decided to come and push me into the pose. As she nearly snapped my back from bending me backwards, I started to feel like I was going to lose balance and crush the yogi under the bulk of my being. But when I started to fall she just pushed back, and then pulled my arm out of its socket to accomplish the pose, which I pray was perfect or else my pain was in vain.

During the poses that the entire class seems to accomplish with great ease, the instructor loves to give out a, “Yogi’s Option.” This usually entitles contorting into a crazy position, while using your big toe to lift your leg over your head. If it was really this yogi’s option, I would option to go next door to the fish fry and eat fried seafood and tartar sauce until I can no longer move. It’s probably a better choice to follow the instructor’s option instead of my own.

The class is actually really great, but yoga is turning out to not be the form of exercise that really entertains me. This is probably because I prefer loud, Latin pop music to songs of the forest blue jays, or maybe because I like constant dancing motion, but all in all, it is a good class. I think also that the yoga mindset just doesn’t sit well with me. This is because the moment you say that, “this removes toxins,” I give you as much credibility as a Kinoki footpad.

Life Starts with a Hernia Check.

After I was offered a job at a water municipality in Irvine, I was made aware that I would have to complete a drug test. I shrugged and agreed because the only drug I have ever done was Tylenol PM, which I was addicted to as a child. So I drove out to Santa Ana to the clinic which I was required to complete my test at.

The clinic was easily miss-able, as was proven by the fact that I passed it three times before realizing that my destination was a tiny building between a clown/party rental store and possibly a crack house. Of course they didn’t have much parking, so I parked in front of the clown/party rental store, where I felt the poorly graffitied clown would protect my truck from any gangster who felt the need to break into my truck. Not that I have much in there worth stealing, besides some dance shoes and Sudoku puzzles.

The clinic lobby was incredibly small, which made it so that I had to squish in between a large Mexican man and a man who kept yelling about a bus back to the Goodwill. I started to fill out the paperwork that I was handed, but found difficulty filling out any information because I was not given a clipboard nor a pen. Luckily, I had my trusty man bag, that’s sole purpose is to be filled with pens. As for the clipboard, I couldn’t find a substitute from my bag, so I had to write awkwardly on my lap, which rendered my penmanship illegible and reminiscent of Thai.

Most of the paperwork consisted of filling my name out repeatedly, but then I reached a sheet that asked my medical history. I went down the checklist, but was uncertain why they would need to know if I had varicose veins. I didn’t think that I had those, but to be certain, I tried to raise my pant leg to see. Unfortunately, this made me lean awkwardly to the side and my head touched the shoulder of the large Mexican man. He glared at me and so I started to lean towards the Goodwill shouting man, but decided I would just put no to the varicose veins question.

I was brought into the back of the building for my drug screen, but they then informed me that I would be receiving a full physical as part of my employment. This started by putting me two feet away from an eye chart and having me read the bottom line, which when two feet away is like 25 sized font. I breezed through and was taken to another room by a tiny waif of a male nurse. He put me on the scale, weighed me, and then asked what height I was. “Like 6’4”, I think.” He sighed and decided that maybe he should actually measure me. He placed me against the height gauge and said, “Yeah, I can’t see that high. We’ll say you’re 6’4”.” This was turning out to be the most blasé physical I have ever taken in my life. The mini-man nurse then told me I had to have my hearing tested.

The hearing test included me being shoved into a tiny, soundproofed box and listening for beeps through headphones. The problem was not my hearing, but the fact that I could not fit into the booth. Going in forward wasn’t working because I didn’t have room enough to turn around to sit, so I was coached to back into the booth. The problem then was the fact that I could not sit on the stool in the booth without having my head pressed against the ceiling. For lack of a smaller stool, I was told to just squat in the booth for the duration of the test.

Hearing tests are bizarre to me, because when I take them, I feel it is necessary to squeeze my eyes as closed as possible, depriving me of one of my senses; therefore, making my hearing superhuman. And apparently, I squeeze the I-heard-something-buzzer just as hard, which makes my palms sweat. Unfortunately for the mini-man nurse, this meant that he would have to take the buzzer from me after the test, which was by then, dredged in sweat.

The next part of my physical was the drug test. I had been prepared to pee for about two hours and was on the cusp of exploding, so I welcomed this test with outstretched arms. I was given a new nurse for this test, who spoke in only disconnected sentences. “Purse,” he pointed at a cupboard for me to put my man bag. “Don’t flush,” he pointed at the bathroom where I would be peeing (which the toilet was filled with blue food coloring) and handed me a cup. I rushed in and peed with great haste, and then I left the cup on the counter in the bathroom so that I could wash my hands. But when I went to turn on the faucet, I noticed that it was wrapped in yellow caution tape that had EVIDENCE displayed along the length of it. I opened the door and stole some antibacterial gel from the nurses’ station, where I found the mini-man nurse glaring at me.

“Did he watch you pee? Martin! Did you watch him pee?” Martin (which, by the way, is pronounced Mar-TEEN <which, when said by the mini-man nurse, sounds like a screeching monkey>) turned the corner and shrugged. “Well you’ll have to do the test again.” That would be a feat impossible, and fortunately enough, the mini-man nurse remembered how blasé this whole physical was and just let my pee pass.

Martin looked at me in the hallway and said, “Cup?” I had left it in the bathroom, like is required at most decent medical offices, but apparently, he wanted me to bring it out, into the hallway, without a cap. I went back and retrieved the sample for Martin, who then started to pour it into vials over the carpet. I couldn’t help but wonder how much pee had dripped into that carpet, but I assumed enough had to gross me out.

After Martin packaged up my pee, I was sent to get my lumbar X-rayed, which was the only normal portion of my physical. The only problem that I faced was trying to contort myself into the positions that the tech needed me to be in for the X-ray. First we tried with my hands above my head, but they hit the wall, so then we tried to the side, which then they hit the base of the machine. We settled with me clutching my arms against my chest while in the fetal position.

The last of my physical was for me to be examined by the doctor, who may have been the only white man in the entire building. He seemed nice enough, but I could tell he was in a rush to have me out. “What’s your name, hands out, pulse, lean, lean, lean, breathe in, out, what school did you go to, pants, shorts.” I didn’t have enough time to answer any question before he would shout out another order. I asked, “Pants?” He made a motion with his hands which meant I should take my pants off. “Shorts?”  It didn’t click with me that he meant my underwear, so he tugged his waist band which then made me realize, oh, I have to be naked. Before I could get my briefs down past my thighs, he had already dived in to prod my testicles and demand coughs. He was out of the examination room in less than two minutes from when he entered, and I just had to leave without another word.

I got back to my truck, which had been protected by the graffitied clown, and I hopped in. I started to drive off and reflected on the clinic, which probably deserved a clown graffitied on their wall because that place was the closest I have ever been to a circus in my life. I started down the freeway, but smiling, because I will have a job, and my life can begin, even if it did have to start with hernia check.

Compensating Your Caboose.

The Broderick family has two curses: One of them involves spilling food on ourselves at every meal, and the other is, “Big Gut, No Butt.” While the first is only inconvenient, and I have learned to cope with it by packing a change of clothes with me in my truck at all times, the second I have been not able to adapt to as easily.

I used to exemplify the curse with my extensive gut and tiny butt, but due to the loss of my gut, I only half represent the curse at the time being. The problem with losing my gut is that I lost the tiny semblance of a butt, which I did have, in the process. Now, I have made it so that I have lost enough gut that my butt has turned concave. 

I will be the first to admit that if I had enough money, I would go under the knife and get my butt augmented, faster than you could say uncomfortable silicon. Usually people are surprised when I say that I would get butt implants if I had the opportunity to get some sort of plastic surgery, generally assuming that I would get a rhinoplasty due to my large nose. I love my nose, and would never get it touched, but the fact that people assume that I want a rhinoplasty makes me think that maybe everyone else finds my nose to be hideous and beaklike.

The problem with butt implants is that after you receive them, you cannot sit down for three months. And as much as I love standing and laying down, I couldn’t do that for three months, especially because I would regain my gut that I have worked so hard to trim down. Another reason why I wouldn’t get butt implants would be that I would not be able to decide on a butt size. Should I go with a Kardashian butt? Maybe a J.Lo… Unfortunately enough, butt implant sizes only come in female comparisons.

So for my last birthday, my best friend and her mother (who coincidently is also one of my best friends) got me a birthday present to solve all of my glute problems. The answer comes in the form of butt boosters, or tiny, mesh shorts with butt padding in the back. Not only did they get me a butt booster, but they got me two, just in case I wanted to look extra bootylicious for my nights on the town. Immediately, when I pulled them out of the box, I tried them on. First with just one pair, but after a few minutes, I had to put on both, just to see how big I could get.

I strolled about town in them and discovered how much more comfortable life is with padding on the backside. Which then made me think of the most uncomfortable chairs in the world, which just so happen to be in every church building in the country. I knew that I had to wear my butt pads to church, just to see if life would be any more comfortable.

Getting ready for church was bizarre, mostly because I couldn’t decide if I should have just one pair of pads or two. I tried on the two first and had problems getting my slacks on and over my false butt, which then just made me look ridiculous, so I opted for the one pair. The problem therein lies with the fact that I bought slacks that make it look like I have a butt, even though I don’t, so my butt looked ridiculously large (and especially wide). Luckily, with the help of a sweater vest, I was able to make my butt look less noticeably fake, and more acceptable as part of my normal body.

I had to make sure that I walked normally, so that my mother would not see my prosthetic butt, because if she had any inkling of its falseness, I am sure she would have sent me to the bathroom to take it off immediately, and then come back for a non-padded spanking. Just in case she did find out and sent me off the bathroom, I brought the other butt in my man purse, so that I could put on both in the bathroom and really make a spectacle before being spanked maliciously in Sunday School.

I told a few people about my fake butt, which just made it so that they watched me as I walked to see if they could spot a difference. This wouldn’t be so awkward if only one person was staring at me as I walked by, but by the end of church, I had a good fifteen people trying to judge my butt. Some said they could tell because it didn’t shake, and others said that it was a little too high, but nobody really said that it was unbelievable because I am known for having the flattest bum on the planet, so I was quite satisfied with the results.

The saddest part of the whole situation is when I take off the boosters, because I feel like I am naked without my butt. So I like to slide on the shorts for an extra fifteen minutes, just to make me feel like I have completely escaped the Broderick curse of Big Gut, No Butt. Then I take off my implants for the day, and hide them away so that my secret butt won’t be found and used for evil. And then, when I sit down, I realize how boney my butt is and I get tempted to slide them right back on again.