Saturday, September 30, 2006

Sunday, September 24, 2006

The Cynical Career Counsellor Explains Your Future as a

Dental Assistant

Hey--Almost forgot your appointment, didn't you--good thing you got back; I was just leaving. You do that sort of thing a lot, don't you?

No--I'm never here after hours; the evening custodian just says that everytime he's about to light up the bong... er, I mean, he says there's this annoying kid--nevermind. Just have a seat.

Dental assistant? There are some pitfalls ahead, I fear.

You'll go to a technical school of some sort, and learn all about dental instruments, suction and chair operation. You'll learn the tricky art of staying out of the dentist's way while providing him or her with instant help. You'll even learn to translate the garbled articulation of those whose mouths are frozen and filled with gauze.

You're a good student, even if you forget stuff, so you'll get a good job working with one of the more successful dental offices in town. There you'll truly experience all that is disgusting about the human mouth. The mask and glasses don't save you from the stench of fetid rotting teeth, and the water rinse nozzle or the drill just bounce bits of that decay off whatever parts of your skin aren't protected by your gear.

It will take some pretty long showers to make you feel clean after work.

Your boss specializes in "painfree" dental work--he has a particular clientele who are rather phobic about such things--and he has more work than he can handle. Though you get off work at five, he begins scheduling some patients for after hours appointments. He explains that it's the only way he can keep up with the demand for his services, but assures you he's able to handle those extra clients on his own.

You notice that most of these after hours patients are attractive women, but you don't really think about it. Then, one day, you come back because you've once again forgotten something at work. He won't notice you until it's too late--the whole creepy situation now suddenly makes sense, and he rushes after you as you run from the office.

He pleads with you not to reveal his crime, and informs you that your salary and holiday time have both been immediately doubled. You just push him away and drive home.

You don't report for work the next day as you decide what to do. He sends you an email promising it will never happen again, and offering you a share of the business. That afternoon, as you're taking your dog for a walk and trying to clear your head, a car comes out of nowhere and almost runs you down. The driver speeds off, but you instantly know it was no accident.

Fearing for your safety, you rush to the police station and swear out a statement detailing what you saw back in the office. Soon there's a major media circus with you and your boss as featured players. At first, his lawyers try to spin it that you are simply vindictively making up the story because he rejected your romantic overtures, but when two patients come forward to verify your boss's crimes, you become a sort of hero.

It's an election year, and the rights of women in the workplace had already been simmering as an election issue. Soon, candidates from both sides are dropping by to ask your opinion on proposed legislation, and the eventual winner celebrates your courage by inviting you to walk next to her in the "take back the night" march.

There's a great deal of goodwill you can capitalize on--you are offered a variety of jobs with various committees and agencies designed to stop workplace sexual harassment, but you tell everyone you just want to do what you trained to do. The powers that be grant your wish--you are offered a job in Washington at one of the preeminent dental clinics in the world. Some of the top politicians and their high-level staff become your clientele, and you make more money working for your new boss than you would have made even if you'd accepted the bribe offer at your previous office.

It all sounds pretty good, doesn't it. Unfortunately, it doesn't last. There's a revolution in some third world country--their dictator had been a staunch supporter and ally of the current administration--and when he flees for his life, he is whisked away to Washington. Instead of calming the folks back in his home nation, there are daily protests and riots as citizens demand he be returned to face trial for his crimes against his homeland.

Suddenly, conveniently, he is killed in a car accident--the body badly burned. There are some who wonder if the body really was that of the dictator, but the press releases assure the public it was him.

That night, you once again forget something at work, so after dinner, you drive back to the clinic to pick it up. The men in the black ski masks had already replaced the dictator's dental records--seemed some were nervous about a potential invesitigation--and it's just tragically bad timing that you've seen them.

They can't kill you in the office--too suspicious--but you do get many positive mentions in the press when your "suicide" is announced the next day.

I've got to go now--I'm late for happy hour.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Poetry by Dythandra

Not my Scene

It's the first meeting of the year
Lunch time--room 309.
They wonder if the media will show up this time
To give the defenders of morality
Reason to get their signs out of the garage.

I sit in a back corner,
Unallied. I like it that way.

They're all there--those who've known since 6th grade,
Those who aren't sure,
Even the fag hags in training.

Tommy Hilfiger should've put more stripes in his logo--
He'd get rich off this crew.

They begin--volunteers self-disclose.
It's like testimonies at a revival meeting
Presided over by the "sponsor",
Who smiles supportively and leads the applause
After each weakling is finished whining.

I notice one butch glance in the doorway
She surveys the room--is about to move on
Then sees me, and steps inside.
Sadly, for her, not my type
But I never write off a game piece
When my games are so much fun.

Then our "leader"--the face of this club
Seen on local television
Each year when the evening news lacks
Plane crashes or hollywood scandal
He begins his self disclosure.

He tells of his adolescent angst,
The regrets of his sham marriage
The hatred of the community
Where he first revealed his truth.

I plead guilty to a smirk,
As I watch him choke up
And tears of sycophant sympathy
Glisten among a few disciples
throughout the room.

I've had enough--when they offer everyone a pin
To show solidarity in the hallways
I gracelessly decline.

Their prophet sees it all, and out loud,
in front of the group--his biggest mistake--
He asks why I don't want one.

(Perhaps it's payback for my listening skills
during his earlier pityfest.)

Normally not one to proclaim to the masses
What I can dagger through the hearts of individuals
I rise to the occasion.

"I don't need any pins of yours"--here I allow myself
a meaningful glance at "Rocky", as she has dubbed herself--
"I have enough body art of my own, thanks."

Then, I mock their weakness--their need for support
The world does not frighten me--I create fear.
"I don't need to spend my lunchtime playing therapy group
for an aging queen too cheap to pay a shrink."

The room is silent except for someone weeping quietly
off in a corner. Not cowed by my words, the teacher--
a few disciples crowded protectively around him--
Asks why I bothered to come.

"It's some cheap entertainment 'til the weather's good enough
for the skaters and the wiggas to start pounding each other
out on the back parking lot again."

I know when to exit for best effect, but as I near the door,
I make my only strategic mistake.
"Where did you learn to be so angry?"

I could've walked on--his voice was soft,
I might not have heard him.

But I stopped. They waited.

Life is what it is, I explain,
I ask no quarter and give none.

"Is that what your parents taught you?"

"My parents? A father who hides in is study,
lost in drink--spending all his time making online dates
He never intends to keep?"

"My mother--joining every committee in sight
To hide from her only child, who scares the hell out of her?"

I hate myself the moment the pathetic syllables
Escape my lips. I hate worse, what I see next:

Empathy.

I don't need it, him, or them.

I do break a lot of windows that night, though.

Friday, September 22, 2006

The Cynical Career Counselor Explains Your Future as a

Wedding Planner

Hi kid--wedding planner? You do sort of have an "always the bridesmaid" kind of look about you, so I guess you might as well make a career of it. No, no, I didn't mean anything by that remark. But hey--if you take offence easily, you might want to rethink this.

You'll need to go take a little bit of training--a smattering of bartending, some accounting, design, decorating and maybe even a bit of restaurant management. Even so, none of that will prepare you for this. The best thing to do is find an experienced wedding planner and job shadow them for about six months--that or just get yourself thrown into a prison yard with the word "snitch" tattooed on your forehead--you'll be treated about the same way by those around you.

Once you've shadowed long enough to know the three key strategies of wedding planners--what's that? Oh, simple.

Number one: Small print saying "this is not a binding contract, but merely an estimate of total costs. Actual cost of service is subject to change". You can NEVER plan for the disasters that some poor cursed souls will face on their nuptual day.

Number two: Facing a tirading mother of the bride--always steer her to the employee who speaks the least English

Number three: You can always shut down and open again under a new business name. Buh-bye creditors.

You'll see the routine repeated over and over 'til you can predict it flawlessly: Which bridesmaid will hook up with which groomsman, when the father of the groom will signal for the cheaper booze to be opened up, how badly you'll want to throttle the the canned music guy every time he plays the "bird dance"--all leading up to somebody's cheque bouncing a few days after it's all done.

Still, weddings are emotional times, and eventually, you'll get to see the full spectrum--I don't mean joy, happiness--all that hallmark crap--I mean the raw alcohol-fueled revelation of anguish at love lost, hope betrayed, or youth faded.

One day it will go farther. A bitter, jilted ex will be too loaded to find the happy couple before they depart for their honeymoon, but since he packed the gun into the hall--well, maybe some of those flowers could double as your employees' tribute to your memory.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

Poetry by Dythandra

Back to School

A familiar ritual
My mother dragging me to sales
Thrusting floral prints at me

Despite what your magazines say, Mater dear,
There is no "new black".

The first moments in class, the roll call
My name--if they're good, you don't notice
The catch in the throat and the anxious eyes

I stare, then let a little smile drift across my lips
In return: a shudder, a swallow, a hastily-scrawled note
The principal will be sure to hear
Sound reasons why I might be better... relocated.

Another first week ritual:
My annual skirmish with the forces
of sweat socks and volleyballs.

The Vice Principal sighs
"You know P.E. is manditory for your grade."
The same tired paper pusher who decreed last year
that 40 minutes to untie one's boots
Was insufficient excuse.

It's my, uhm, corset-thing
I see the wheels turn, while visions of all manner of frightening things
Dance in his head.

Then I hand him the "doctor's note".
(They shouldn't leave the letterhead handy
When the receptionist steps away from the desk.)
Attached is the informative brochure
I downloaded from the 'net.

"What teachers should know about scoliosis".

That round won, I return to the hallways
And then my year takes its first
Unexpected turn.

His kind hasn't been seen here before
Perhaps a fan of "The Crow", I think to myself.
I suddenly reevaluate all those pronouncements on orientation
That have shattered my few past suitors.

He doesn't see me at first;
Some cementhead jock made a smartass remark
To his steroid buddies
My soon to be friend turned instantly
And the joker was on the floor.

Apparently it only took a couple of such displays
To give him a degree of tolerance
Rarely accorded anyone in this incestuous petri dish
of preppy pondscum.

Our friendship was assumed from the first
Though I looked for hint of more
Sadly, one day as we sat near a football practice
Mocking the fools on the field
I noticed something else in his eyes

His view of the practice had something more...
Unrequited.
I sighed--here I am, hoist on my own petard,
or lack thereof.

Still, a friend is better
Than most years start.
Finally a biology partner who understands
The true joy of dissection.