Bruce Toews (masterofmusings) wrote,
Bruce Toews

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Summer Jobs

Last night I had a rather spirited, if totally unserious, argument with funblindsinger about summer jobs. It brought back some memories. Mind if I share them? You might as well answer yes, because I am going to, anyway. Why? Because I can.

1989. I had worked as a counselor at a computer camp for the blind, and I was spending the rest of the summer engaged in that most important of tasks, getting as many episodes of the Flintstones in as possible, preferably two or three times. My dad had had enough. "Stop watching the Skinflints and get a job," he insisted. It wasn't going to happen that year. I'd done my stint, enlightening and watering the minds of kids whose minds would otherwise have been darker and dryer (no, that line isn't mine).

But the next summer, I determined to accomplish two things for myself, viz., I would avoid the argument with my dad, and I'd get the heck out of the house.

I did both. Fortunately, I had an easy start because our choir was doing a tour of England and Scottland. Aye. (Make fun of my accent all you want, Allison, I'm above all that. ) Where was I? Oh yeah, in the UK.

So when I got back, I had a summer job lined up. They turned me down as a long-distance trucker (I wonder why?), so instead I scanned books and went through them with a fine-toothed word processor. Oddly enough, and I don't know if this will work for me or against me, it was at the Department of Education, that wondrous sector of civil-serviceosity to which I am currently applying for a job. Where was I? Oh yeah, scanning and teeth and computers.

I had this job during the summers of 1990, 1991 and 1992, and there were a lot of memorable times.

Second summer, I climb into the Handi-Transit vehicle, and my pants rip at the crotch. By the time we get to work, I have completely forgotten about said rip. I sit down, not realizing that there's this gaping hole in the crotch of my pants. Cheryl (I forget which way she spells her name), the Majordomo, walks up to me and very tactfully brings this hole to my attention. Red-faced (I assume), I go into her office, remove said pants, hand them through the door, and she very kindly sews them up for me, leaving me sitting in a respectable government office, in my underwear, while my boss sews up my pants. It was a good summer: not as good as last summer, to be sure, but it was a good summer.

Remind me to tell you, sometime, about what it's like toing a comedy show on the most powerful FM station on the continent ... well, it was that at the time.

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