Vegetus, Patron Saint of Homeless Edible Greenery (and other items of interest)

I gave away my shift at JavaCo on Thursday because I was sick of working. I would rather have dropped my pool shift, but it's more difficult to weasel out of those because there are only two other girls who work the early mornings, and one of then was already scheduled. I know I have to work for the rest of my life, and for the most part I enjoy my jobs, but enough was enough. Work sucks. I planned on being productive but spent the time sleeping instead.

My car needed to be inspected at least two weeks ago, and still does. Also, my mom found out I walked at gradutation after all and that I didn't tell her. She wasn't happy.

I'm doing makeup for LuAnn Hampton Laverty Oberlander. I get to make one guy look sixty, fashion a mustache on another, and put Heather's wig on. It's pretty fun.

I got an ominous voicemail from my friend with whom I'm moving to New York, saying that he's having trouble finding a place. Which might mean that I may not be moving to New York. I don't really want to think about that or its alternatives right now.

I dropped the Theatre Practice course I was enrolled in because I was graduated, poor, and Ron said it was OK to work onthe show and not be enrolled. I found out later that I still had to pay seventy-five percent of the fees. I appealed and learned today that it was granted, so that's two hundred dollars that I don't have to pay for gluing hair to Jeremy's upper lip and putting Heather's wig on.

In a week's time, I've accumulated two more zucchini, two tomatoes, and two ears of corn. Now I'm debating founding a shelter in my house for wayward herbage. Either that, or having a dinner party.

Give me your turnips, your corn, your bundled asparagus yearning to be eaten; send these, the homeless salad-tossed, to me; I lift my fork beside the golden refrigerator door.

Absolut Zukini

I've been commissioned by one of the bakers at JavaCo to paint flowers on the walls of her chicken coop. It's a bigger ordeal than I had originally thought--it took me over six hours to finish one side. In addition to monetary payment, though, she gave me four zucchini, a mess of green beans, and invited me to raid her garden whenever I visited to paint. I had no knowledge of how to prepare zucchini, outside of my usual dip-it-in-honey-mustard-sauce-and-consume-raw routine, but one of the ladies at the pool was kind enough to offer a recipe basic enough to remember offhand and not require any ingredients that I wouldn't be able to use in anything else.

Today, also at said pool, I was talking to the kid who wears Forrest Gump-style braces on his legs. After showing me his "trick" (a tidal wave splash, then going underwater, holding his breath, and wiggling around), he announced, "I have a really, really, really big zucchini."

"That's cool. Did you grow it?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No. It's too much for us to eat. We might give it away. Maybe to you." He laughed, then splashed, went underwater, held his breath, and wiggled around.

He was probably joking, but I couldn't help imagine what I would do with this bounty of zucchini that has been bestowed upon me, and why I was chosen to receive its glorious healthful plentitude. I pictured my refrigerator overflowing with vegetation as I'd attempt zucchini cakes, zucchini smoothies, chicken-fried zucchini, zucchini chips, zucchini-stuffed zucchini, zucchini dog food, zucchini vodka. I'd shake my fist at Providence with every well-intentioned gift while simultaneously offering a weary thanks, because at the moment I'm out of honey mustard sauce and I could really use a drink that began with Z.

Hypochlorus Acid and Old Ladies

"So, Meredith, how's lifeguarding at the pool?"

It's easy. It's really, really easy, almost embarassingly so, and despite that I enjoy it. I think the hardest parts are getting up to be there at 5:45 AM and working the paleozoic cash register, which prints in purple ink and requires a key to turn on.

Every half hour I trade off guarding the indoor pool with Paul, a man in his sixties who reminds me of Hoo-Lan from My Teacher Glows in the Dark--in that he's about ear-level with me, not that he has blue skin. He is disarmingly friendly and drives a white scooter with "Roberta" on the license plate. The only people that come in that early are the swim team members that are training in the off-season and a gaggle of old women who slowly bob from one end of the pool to the other and talk about their gardens, recipes, and rashes. When I'm not guarding, I push a button on the register when people come in with their passes.

Open swim ends at 9, at which time the sixteen-year-old girl from La Plata who I work with, and myself, do "chores." I would have called it "pool maintenance" or something official-sounding like that, but she called it "chores" the first day and I thought it was cute, so "chores" it will remain. Today, I can say with pride that I have officially swabbed a deck--i.e, I sprayed a bleach mix on the deck of the pool, scrubbed with a broom, and then she hosed it off. I water plants. I wash windows. I also get to operate Carl, who is a remote-control robot that vacuums the bottoms of the pools. It's just as cool as it sounds--like driving a toy car, only for a purpose. They should market these things for kids to clean house with.

Chores end at 10:00 when the Arthritic Old Lady Class comes in. They stand in a circle in the pool and rotate their joints while talking about their gardens, recipes, and rashes. I trade off every half hour with the other girl and read in the first aid room when I'm not guarding. Knocking wood, no one in there will probably ever need rescuing. I'm officially done at 12, but they usually let me go about twenty minutes beforehand.

That's pretty much it. Even if I'm requested to do an awkward task, such as playing games at the Hunger Awareness Day Weiner Roast with children that had no interest in games, it only ends up in getting paid for standing around uncertainly for two hours while drinking free soda, getting my face painted, and talking to Amber and Jared, who were also recruited for the same purpose. On the flip side, this is probably the extent of any interesting stories.

The Opposite of Dust Bowl Blues

Oh the chlorine turned my hair green
But it can't kill me, Lord, no it can't kill me.

I did it. I touched the bottom of the twelve foot. No magic fix, no "wake-up-and suddenly-I-could; I went in yesterday and practiced over and over until, after swallowing a wading pool's worth of water, I got it. Today were the CPR, written, and skills tests. They mail me my certification in a month, even though orientation is on Monday. I actually get paid for being there.

Earrings and Shakespeare aside, I haven't felt this accomplished since I fixed JavaCo's toilet myself without having to call anyone. It gives me hope that work and effort really do make a difference, not just "raw talent" or "natural aptitude."

Next step: make it through Free Bird on Guitar Hero.

In Which Meredith Meets Her Underwaterloo

My first day of lifeguard training was today. I probably should have known what to expect, but I didn't--at the very least being that I should have been wearing a swimming suit, which I was not. I don't even own one. The last time I needed one was at 10:30 pm at Wal-Mart on an August weeknight last summer. They closed the fitting rooms at 10, and I'd be damned if I had to shuck out $10 for a tacky, picked-over, mismatched, clearance-rack bathing suit I'd only be using once, if I couldn't even try it on.

Heather let me borrow her spare suit.

We have to pass a number of tests in order to become a Certified Lifeguard. There is a written exam on rules, procedures, techniques, and judgement calls. There's also a skills test, where you have to demonstrate various rescues, holds, and necessary fundamentals. One of these requires us to swim to the twelve-foot deep end, retrieve a brick from the bottom, and swim it back to the other side.

I can run a 5k without stopping for breath, I can bicycle twenty miles without getting too fatigued, but for the life or death of me, as much as I tried, I wasn't able to touch the bottom of the deep end. I have until next Saturday. The worst-case scenario is that I'd only be able to guard the wading pools in the parks, which would throw a few kinks into my schedule and leave the aquatic center without another full lifeguard at their facilities. But I'm not going to let that happen. I may swallow water; but it will not swallow me.

Come Saturday, that brick is mine.