It's Like a Jungle, Sometimes it Makes Me Wonder

[Note: my coworkers are lovely human beings, and the following content should in no way suggest otherwise. They are some of the kindest, most generous people I’ve had the pleasure of knowing. The following observations are purely anthropological and do not reflect negatively on the character of the lovably strange people I work with.]

My job is frequently a strange and confusing place where there are no rules governing social interaction.

There are two types of people drawn to the vet industry: people who love animals and people who dislike and/or are terrified of other people. Also people who are addicted to narcotics. But we’ll save that for another day. Much like these dogs who forgot how to dog, veterinary workers (myself included) often forget how to social.

For your reading pleasure, I've comprised a detailed account of Veterinary Social Etiquette.

A) Tenets governing the universe.

                                                                                                                                

1. If something occurs more than once, assume it has always and will always happen. Casually comment every time you notice recurring themes.

Based on my coworkers’ worldview I am currently the poor-college-student-super-carnivore-vegan-with-an-omnipresent-cough-and/or-asthma. I’m also the resident expert on twerking. Real talk: I’ve drastically changed my lifestyle just to see how quickly my work caricature adapts.

Example: some of you may recall I was horrifically ill last winter. As a result, I’ve earned a reputation for being perpetually sickly. Unfortunately this means every time I forget my esophagus wasn’t made for swallowing saliva and choke on my own spit, my coworkers ask if I’ve seen a doctor for “that cough” yet. Fortunately, I can attribute a whole plethora of things to my perceived perma-illness, including hangovers. Not that I’ve ever had a hangover at work. That would be irresponsible.

2. Everything should be logical and justifiable. The words “maybe” and “probably” support any theory.

Fact: humans behave erratically. Sometimes irresponsibly. Chaos reigns, things don’t always make sense. 90% of the time when somebody is late for their appointment, they simply have poor time management skills. But what’s the fun in that? Veterinary workers can deftly create hypothetical situations and drop clients into them the way I used to drop Zoo Tycoon guests into the raptor pen.

Me: Our 2:30 appointment is late. We should call them.

Coworker: Oh well, maybe that client owns a whippet. They probably got stuck in traffic.

Or: Oh well, school started yesterday. This client is probably a single mother and had to pick the kids up. Maybe one of them got in trouble today for starting a small fire in the lunch room and the talk with the principal took longer than expected.

Occasionally I’m tempted to offer my own alternative scenarios. For example:

Oh well, the sun rose at 6:23 this morning, so judging by the length of the Continental Divide… they probably spilled their coffee. Or maybe had to hand feed a baby leopard shark? That could put anybody behind schedule.

Sometimes I think they’re dicking with me, testing how far they can push the boundaries of reason before I call their bluff. Sometimes.

B) Techniques and Etiquette for Conversing

1. Signs your coworker wants you to start a conversation with them…

·         They make accidental eye contact

·         They do not make accidental eye contact.

·         They are quietly reading a book.

·         They are working intently (note: this is particularly true if their work looks difficult)

·         They are talking to a client on the telephone.

·         They exist in a room and appear to be conscious.

**Loosely interpret “conscious” to mean “breathing”.

2. Strategies for initiating conversation…

·         Hover near them until they are unable to avoid glancing your direction.

·         If they don’t respond to the hovering, bounce on the balls of your feet.

·         Hum tunelessly. Peer into the middle-distance. They’ll probably/definitely inquire what’s on your mind. (Alternative: sigh deeply and/or chuckle under your breath whilst shaking your head)

·         As a last resort, lean forward and splay your hands on their desk. This will minimize their work space and force them to acknowledge your presence.

3. Notes on conversing…

i. Have a script: saying the same thing at the same time on the same days of the week will be reassuring to your conversational partner. Consistency is key.

Monday morning: ask how your coworker’s weekend was. Every other morning? Inquire about their general state of being. When it is somebody’s designated lunchtime, ask if they are going to lunch. Be sure to ask if their lunch is something yummy. They’re scheduled to be done for the day? Ask if they’re heading out.

ii. Should that fail, comment on other obvious occurrences or states of being.

Staples should include:

·         The weather

·         Recently deceased patients

·         Any variation in your coworkers’ schedules. For inspiration, draw on “hypothetical situations” as outlined in section A2.

**Note: casual gossip occasionally passes as a hypothetical situation.

iii. Conversations should begin mid-sentence, especially when you haven’t talked to someone in over 24 hours.

Just like telling a story, start in the middle of the action! The actual beginning or end of your conversation should subsequently and unpredictably twine into the narrative, Tarantino style. For example:

[…long period of silence]

Oh, I know! I can’t wait for the wet season so I can move my shrubs.  

Or maybe:

[…the second your conversational partner decides to be productive instead of trolling Buzzfeed]

Yeah I agree, so that’s when I decided to call pest control.

iv. All conversations are opportunities to share uncomfortable details about yourself.

The key here is to trick your conversational partner so they don’t see the antidepressants or indigestion coming. Start with something casual; be blasé. People love to be surprised by really intimate knowledge of your personal life. 

Coworker: Oh god, I’m so tired today.

Me: Oh yeah? Rough night?

Coworker: No, my doctor just doubled my antidepressant dose. I’ll be a zombie for at least a week.

[Please note that this conversation, verbatim, has occurred between me and at least three coworkers on separate and unrelated occasions.]

So there you have it! The social interaction gamut I’ve run five days a week for the past 18 months. Considering 14 out of our 16 person staff are introverts, we do pretty damn well forging interpersonal bonds. Side note, our clients are just as strange, if not stranger, than we are. Questions I will never be equipped to answer:

1. How can you tell the difference between a sneeze and a stroke?

2. Will it hurt a kitten to drink human breast milk?

3. I’m not sure what end this came out of… How do I know if that’s a hairball or poo?

All my love, you bunch of weirdos.

-b

Dreams so Real

My eyes are a gravel pit and my head feels like it’s full of the cotton that comes stuffed in the top of pill bottles. Everything rattles today.

I had a dream last night/this morning about a castle in the sky, and a purple balloon from Hillary Clinton, which made me think of you, even though that’s a thing I’ve been doing less lately. I wanted to show it to you but even in my dreams you are far away.

All of the moms went to Tik Tok without us. The moms didn’t bring us fried pickles. I’m not sure who “us” was, maybe everybody. Everybody I love, you were all there. Your moms were all there.

I don’t know what this means, except I’d like to see where you come from. I want to meet the moms and look for you in their faces and gestures. I want to hear That One Story, the one that makes your ears burn. She promised she’d never tell it again but you both know she will.

I love you. I have sharp teeth.

I want the moms to meet each other, like we could be kids again. They could drink coffee or tea at the park while we Red Light, Green Light, Red Light, Green Light our way into becoming. What would they talk about?

Anything. Everything. Or maybe nothing.

I want to see where you come from, who you come from. Maybe where you’re going. Maybe where we’re all going.

That’s all, I think.

-b

Lessons from my first week bike commuting:

1. Always trust your GPS…

Google spent a lot of money and littered our solar system with a lot of space junk to map the entire planet. When they say “take a slight right onto Garden Springs” they don’t mean “take a hard right onto Huber because all roads on the right side of the road will take you to the same place”. No. That’s a false assumption and you will end up cruising 7 miles downhill, only to walk your bike 3 miles up US-43. The fastest way to double your 9 mile commute? Huber Street.

2. …except when it’s untrustworthy

Your GPS is a computer. Google won’t understand why that 80 degree incline just isn’t an option. The space junk just knows that’s the most direct way to get from A to B. That tiny staircase in the side of the mountain? Totally a viable option. 2.5 uphill miles? Easy as pie when you are a machine. I am not a machine. Nothing is easy. 

3. Rain gear. 

Sometimes you bike to work two days in a row and get a little cocky. Through whatever dumb luck the sun has been shining every time you're outside. When A offers you a rain jacket (on three separate occasions) you borrow it to humor her. 

When the sky splits open three miles into your 9 mile commute, you will need to thank her for saving your life. I literally spent 20 minutes wringing water out of my cargo pockets. Unfortunately I donned the rain jacket during the storm, because pride. Waterproof gear is less effective when the water is on the inside of your clothes. But I survived, I’ma say mostly because of that jacket. 

4. Mountain bikes were made for mountains.

Real talk: I love my bike. I love the rusted handlebars, oversized tires, and the fact that one of my gears isn’t really a gear. When I “shift” into it nothing happens, except I feel better because theoretically I’ve shifted into an easier gear. Biking is a mental game. I once saw a homeless man in downtown Missoula riding the same make and model, in the same color. Only his seat wasn’t torn in half like mine was for two years.

I love my bike. But I’ve come to the conclusion that mountain bikes are not intended for long city commutes. First of all, it weighs approximately one million pounds. When I hit a hill I can feel gravity tugging on every inch of that alloy frame. Second of all... ok I guess there is no second of all.

5. Safety first!

I am a proud person. This is not a virtue. I also tend to get hung up on really stupid things. For example, my resistance to rain gear noted above. This resistance extends to basic safety gear (AKA helmets, lights, reflectors). You guys, I don’t even know. There’s nothing cool about being very cold and soggy, or smeared on the side of a windy road, or invisible in the dark like a bike ninja. Ok, maybe that last one would be kind of cool but also it leads to permanent brain damage and/or roadside fatalities. Ain’t nobody got time to be dead.

6. Backpacks become exponentially heavier the longer they are on your back. 

Especially when they are filled with tiny melons. 

7. Squirrels. 'Nough said. 

All my love, weirdos. 

-b

Baby's Got a Fast Car

Hello lovelies. This edition of b Honest is brought to you by Laughing Planet Café, where I am drinking iced coffee and resisting the urge to sleep another day away. Have you noticed it’s been a million degrees outside? I will be sweaty always. 

As some of you know I am madly in love with my car, the Biscuit. Like most everything I love, I have officially run him into the ground. Back in May, I had my oil changed right before a trip to the coast. Like a responsible car owner. While I was there, the manager informed me there was oil leaking into my coolant reserve, which likely meant head gasket problems. I don’t know much/anything about mechanics, but I recognize “head gasket” is code for “death sentence”.

His advice: minimal driving until I got into a mechanic. My solution: ignore the problem and assume it will go away.

Three months later I’m writing to inform you Biscuit is officially on hospice. I’m

restricting him to a 5 mile radius, because I’m convinced he’ll explode any day now.

The trouble started Friday night when I was headed to Them’s Fightin’ Words after work. There is nothing even remotely pleasant about commuting to St. John’s at 6pm on a Friday. I learned this lesson the hard way. He overheated three times before I found my way to St. John’s Bookstore and a safe side street.

After the show I limped him 1.3 miles to the nearest 711 where I purchased coolant, oil, and a bottle of bottom shelf red wine because stress. You know what shouldn’t happen when you poor coolant into your vehicle? It shouldn’t come out the bottom of your chassis. It sounded like a pregnant woman’s water breaking in a bad movie. Whoosh, splat.

We made it home without further incident, but shit guys. If he’d broken down in NoPo I would have been helpless. Like, take off my license plates and walk away, surrender. In honor of the Biscuit, I’d like to share my favorite memories. You should probably queue up a medley of emotional 80s rock ballads, if you haven’t already.

Chronological countdown of Biscuit’s best moments:

1. The day I drove him home from Kalispell. On our way out of town, Lucy and I stopped at Border’s going out of business sale. When we hit the road I was fully equipped with Pat Benatar, the Spice Girls, and Eminem. The weather was perfect; two and a half hours of sunshine and windows down and driving too fast through too small towns.

2. My first road trip: Missoula to Portland. Lucy rode down with me for a weekend-long rugby clinic. That was also 1) my first time driving in any traffic, and 2) the weekend Biscuit’s right blinker went out. I like to live on the edge.

3. The winter it snowed four feet overnight and Biscuit was buried until the world thawed. The snow came up over his hood because Biscuit is tiny and adorable, not practical. I eventually used Mo’s tiny, collapsible shovel to dig him out once the roads weren’t a treacherous icy death trap. Lo, E, and a stranger walking her dog helped me push him back into action. Winter’s in Montana are rife with opportunities to accrue good karma. That strange woman was on her game.

4. Tamarack Christmas party, circa 2012. I wasn’t actually at the party, but I did get the opportunity to chauffer my friends (and their ugly sweaters) home from the Rhino. Unfortunately, the majority of my things were already packed into the backseat of my car so I made multiple trips with two people lapped up in the front seat for each ride. There was just so much drunk happening, I don’t even know.

5. The time Lo spent hours tediously arranging and rearranging until everything I own fit into the backseat of a 1999 Dodge Neon. Three concepts that are foreign to me: organization, spatial awareness, planning ahead. I would have shoved everything into garbage bags and stuffed things in until I ran out of space. But Lo is a magician. I have never met a human being so single-handedly capable of thwarting my poor-space-management impulses.

Me: We have to leave room for my little sister [as I set my plant in the front seat]

Lo:[…silence] Is that plant your sister? Should I call it Bobbi? No? Get it out of there. 

6. First trip to the coast: the weekend before I started work. There was still snow in the mountains and a tsunami warning when I got to Seaside. I hydroplaned most of the drive because Biscuit weighs approximately 5 lbs. But I was free and it was raining and I ate a sandwich and drank shitty coffee and felt like myself for a little while

7. My first time driving after riding the bus for two months. I thought I’d killed Biscuit back in December, but really he just needed a new battery. Here is an important thing: having a friend who cared enough to drive 15 miles across the city to jump my car. She sat with me while the CarQuest employee installed my new battery, even though it was dark and cold and late.

8. That night after Blow Pony when everything changed.

9. Night of Kink, round two. C and I sat in my car with the seats reclined and drank box wine and sang at the top of our lungs, dancing across harmonies and melodies until people started trickling out and finding their way home. Sometimes the best outing is staying in.

10. Every morning I cried on my way to work. Seriously you guys, this was like three months of my life. I can’t even imagine if I’d been on a bus or trying to bike. Biscuit is like the therapist I never had.

So, for the time being I’m a bicyclist again. Fact: a woman named Sylvia once talked me into buying life insurance after discussing bike-related fatalities. Because who is going to pay to ship your body home when you cross paths with a semi? Note the use of “when” not “if”. Sylvia knew her game and played it well. Moral of the story, buy American. R.I.P. Biscuit.  

All my love.

-b