An Experiment in Safety

Anyone who has ever taken a science lab can tell you how much rules about safety are stressed. I suppose I can see the point; there’s just so much potential for havoc. I should know; thinking about this havoc potential is what keeps me occupied during my downtime. Well, that and the Internet. And email. And music. For the purposes of this narrative, we’ll say lab safety is important in my job. Because I deal in dangerous substances, baby. Like salt. And food coloring. And my job sucks. Next paragraph.

Usually first and foremost on any lab safety list is ‘no horseplay.’ This doesn’t have anything to do with Mr. Ed’s chances of becoming Dr. Ed, which are pretty slim anyway, but not because of this rule. I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but that horse has been dead for quite some time. It also means that the lab is no place for fun. I can vouch for that: fun is the lab’s archenemy. Occasionally, they’ll have a brief truce when there’s a pile of dry ice in the sink or someone tries to wash out a glove and creates a latex geyser. But the truce is always short-lived.

Lab: Hee. That’s kind of fun.
Fun: Yeah? You like that?
Lab (noncommittally): It’s all right.
Fun: Girl, please. That was nothin’. I’ve got a lot more ideas if you’re interested.
Lab: I dunno. Maybe. I’ve got a lot of work to do here. [pause] And I friggin’ hate you.
Fun: Oh, so that’s how it’s gonna be?
Lab: Pretty much. Get out and stay out.
Fun (muttering under breath): Fine. Then you can play ‘Guess Which Bacteria Culture I Poured Into Your Lemonade’ all by yourself. Ass.

And speaking of mystery bacterial cultures, label everything. I can’t even imagine the ochlochracy that would result from a mix up of 0.1 M and 0.01 M fluorescein dye. On the other hand, excessive labeling could be an indication of obsessive-compulsive disorder. For example, a guy I work with, not naming names, not that it would matter, actually labels his coaster. And not just ‘coaster.’ It says ‘public coaster.’ Er, okay. So to fulfill my duty as antagonist to all who have weird habits that don’t make sense to me, I labeled mine ‘private coaster.’ And I put up a little fence around it. That’s right. Go find a public coaster to sop up your beverage condensation, proletariat scum. This one’s all mine. Mwah, hah hah.

But really, you probably shouldn’t be eating or drinking in the lab. Especially since we regularly flout the ‘no horseplay’ rule with our bi-weekly Lab-Lympics, with events such as the Dirty Beaker Toss and the Bacterial-Luge. So who knows what’s flying around and sprinkling in your drink? Broken glass, acid, some of the shorter lab techs…But what’s that? You skipped lunch? Go ahead, then. It’ll probably be fine.

With all the detritus flying hither and yon, it’s a good thing most labs have a rule about wearing goggles. Put them on. I don’t care if they mess up your hair. Hair should be pulled back in the lab anyway, lest a rogue Bunsen burner singe it off right to your very scalp. That’d be bad, because burning hair smells terrible! So wise up, baldy. We’re talking about protecting your precious, precious eyes! Since when have scientists been concerned with style, anyway? Goggles are very important! I mean, I don’t wear ‘em, but they are. The scariest thing I work with is dye. Besides, the elastic strap musses my hair and makes me look nerdy.

Should you manage to get something in your eye, there are eyewash stations at many sinks in the lab. When on, the eyewash directs the water from the faucet into two streams of water that can be used to clean your eyes, much like those golf ball cleaners at mini-golf places. But if you need that much cleaning, it could be an indication if improper eye usage. But eyewashes are good for washing chemicals out of eyes. Unless of course you’re wearing contact lenses, in which case your only recourse is to melon ball your eyes out lest the liquid trapped beneath the lenses eats through your corneas like so much tissue paper. Isn’t science fun? Eyewashes are also helpful to leave on, so when someone tries to wash a beaker, the water streams immediately soak the entire front half of their body. People can’t get mad at accident preparedness! Well, maybe they can. No running in the lab, you two!

There’s also a shower, in case you work real hard on an experiment and you’re all sweaty and gross and your lab partner doesn’t want to sit next to you anymore. I think. The only time I ever saw them used was during the first few days of a science class when we could usually talk the teacher into demonstrating how they worked. I remember being impressed by how well the shower shot water everywhere, and effectively wasted half of class while the teacher would squeegee the floor. Don’t never say my high school education never got me nowhere.

Another oft-covered topic is pipetting. As a quick refresher, a pipette is like a really precise turkey baster, and also what I work with. Er, along with several top-secret projects that frankly, I’d love to talk about but can’t due to the binding legalities of my contract being strictly confidential and what-not. Suffice it to say I don’t just work with pipettes. I am not a one-trick pipetting pony. Really. Where was I going with this? Surely not calling into question the mental stimulation quotient of my current job. Oh- pipettes. They usually come with a bulb (much like the aforementioned baster) or a dial or a cool battery powered suction thing I saw recently. But perhaps I’ve exposed my inner nerd and said too much. Anyway, we were always harped upon to not pipette by mouth! Don’t do it! I know that’s how we used to do it back in the day, but we were fools! FOOLS! Now where’s my novelty beaker glass full of ambiguously colored beverage?

The reasons for this rule are quite obvious in my mind. In the lab, we deal with some very caustic liquids, like concentrated acids and bases or Kool-Aid with two scoops of powder instead of one. Mouth pipetting can lead to accidental ingestion. And what if it turns out you really like the taste of nitric acid, and you can’t get enough of it? So you drink the whole class supply and we don’t have any left to do our experiments? So why don’t you quit thinking about yourself for once? And don’t think Tums are gonna do anything for the acid reflux you’ll get. You’re on your own there, bucko.

There are also lots of rules about clothing, and these work together to keep the scientists of the world looking as dowdy as possible. Think about it: lab coats, no open-toe shoes, hair back, gloves, goggles... smart is sexy, folks, but it’s hard to tell underneath all that nerd accoutrement. And we can’t have all the scientists running off to go clubbing with the beautiful people of the world! There are diseases to be cured! Phenomena to be investigated! Animals to be shrunk!

So what have we learned here today, kids? Safety first! Unless you’ve got a really good idea involving fire or liquid nitrogen. Well, try make safety is in the top ten, at least- somewhere after pyrotechnic difficulty and aesthetics. Y’all have fun with science, now. Ya hear?

Jelly Belly Flavors I'd Vote Off the Island (and Flavors I'd Be as Likely to Eat)

1. Coconut - Mothballs
2. Cafe Latte - Mississippi River water
3. Cappuchino - Cockroaches with amoebic dysentary
4. Jalapeno - Monkey armpit, lightly sauteed
5. Cinnamon (Sizzling or otherwise) - Sulfuric acid
6. Black - Evil
7. Top Banana - Slug
8. Bubblegum - What is this? "I like the taste of gum... but not the commitment?" No.
9. Lemon (Drop) - Urea
10. Buttered Popcorn - Respiratory failure

Rose-Colored Lab Goggles

I’ve been realizing that a lot of my articles highlight the negative aspects of my job. So to avoid, or at least take a break from, being called a cynic, I've decided to dial down the negativity and take a look at the good aspects of my job. Okay- engaging happy thoughts, because if I don't something soon, insanity is pretty much inevitable.

The first benefit would be the music. After the first few days of being bored to tears while working with a coworker who refused to play a game with me (refused! Who says no to a game?) I began to notice that lots of people were wearing headphones. Judging by their cube decor, it was probably either Björk, Japanese pop or audio from a surgical procedure performed without anesthetic. Seriously, they're weirdos. And not in the 'quirky' sense. Like, in the 'the F.B.I. should be monitoring you' sense. I've been avoiding the software area for a reason.

Once the construction started my mind was made up: given the choice between severe hearing loss from loud music and ruptured eardrums due to percussion-oriented construction, I chose music. And since I have it playing all day, non-stop, it's kind of like I’m in a movie, and it’s my soundtrack. Makes it seem less lame when all I'm doing is walking to the bathroom or entering data into a spreadsheet. Or AM I? Cuz it sure sounds like I'm sneaking into a top-secret facility disguised as a bathroom after weaving the correct path (by memory alone, mind you) through a laser maze. And then hacking into some top-secret files that have been encoded to look like spreadsheets. Had you fooled, I see.

On a related note, my job is a great setting for imaginary work settings. I mean, do you have any idea of how many insidious things can go on in a lab? I friggin' do. My imagination has been seeded with all the possibilities that mad science has to offer. Really, think about it. I watch X-Files. I know what's going on. Cloning, hybrid creatures, alien technology, super humanoids, new versions of computer solitaire... And while we’re on the subject, I'd like to extend a heartfelt thanks to all the mad scientists who are as dedicated to their inane causes as they are short on test subjects, forcing them to experiment on themselves. Way to take one for the team and fuel countless movies as well as my imagination. Because when you work in a regular office, what illicit behind-the-scenes drama can there be? Insider trading? Embezzlement? An office supply pilferer? Tame, when compared to the imagined violations of nature that can occur in a lab. And now that the applications lab has been moved to a new section, it has done nothing to assuage my suspicions. In fact, it has all but confirmed them. Obviously I got too close to the truth. Now to figure out what theory they're afraid of me knowing.

Another good part of my job is that I don't have to deal with people who assume that I know that they'll want the hideous plastic reindeer they're purchasing in a box, and brat to my manager when I don't put it in one. Even though you never asked, jerk. Or explain to women that I, in fact, can't offer them a lower price when they don't think a pair of baby pants is $22 worth of cute. In short, I don't have to be on the 'retail worker' side of the sales industry ever again. And I think we can all breathe (and shop) a little easier for that. If I never see someone drop $1,500 on ornaments again, it'll be too soon.

We're also on a bad power grid, so the power goes out rather frequently. This may sound like a bad thing. It isn't. Reason one: I can't work without power. But I do get paid without power. Reason two: Darkness only ramps up my willingness to believe my own crazy theories. Sitting in a dark warehouse lit only by blinking LEDs? Scary. Sitting in a dark warehouse where it's quite likely that an artificially created lab mutant has escaped from its cage because the deadbolts can’t lock without electricity (similar to that scene in Jurassic Park, but not to the point of copyright infringement) and now it's skulking in the dark, as mutants are wont to do, thirsting for the taste of some obscure internal organ secretion, as mutants are also wont to do? Petrifying. Almost as scary as run-on sentences.

Some other things I like about my job not worthy of a full paragraph by themselves? Glad you asked. I get to wear jeans everyday. I have loads of 'down time' to use the Internet and write. I can get pens out of the supply cabinet whenever I want them. The floors are made of Nerf, and shoes are optional - unless you have gross feet. Also, once you work here for a week, you receive a free cubicle kitten. Naptime is from 1:00 to 3:00 pm. Massage chairs are standard issue. We have the top-secret version of Windows that never crashes, and the only way into and out of meeting rooms are twisty slides into ball pits. Driving home, eating dinner and going to bed count as payable overtime. Employees are exempt from split ends and halitosis. Geese don't attack me in the parking lot and there's no creepy guy in software with a poem about babies with rabies hanging on his cubicle. Yahoo!

So this has been an interesting look at my job from this new 'the beaker is half full' perspective. See what I did there? I put a scientific nerd-spin on the classic optimism/pessimism... never mind. I see how it is. Maybe next week I'll write about how science isn't funny and how I'm just working with what I have, people. Come on.

Ten Habits of Highly Annoying People

1. Writing out ‘Mr.’ as ‘Mister,’ unless you’re an early 19th century British orphan
2. Driving a pickup truck
3. Talking like a helium-voiced baby all the time
4. Being a happy morning person
5. Putting the WebBlocker on my computer at work
6. Working for, appearing on or religiously watching the WB network
7. Not writing me back
8. Being a Spice Girl
9. Having a faint but lingering scent of human bile
10. Dancing to ‘Pump Up the Jam’ in the Target entertainment section

Excitement, Cubed

I'm constantly looking for ways to make my job more exciting. Now, I’ll be the first to admit that spending hours wrapping a piece of string around a small to medium sized rock would be, depending on the color of the string and the strength of the Euro, more exciting than my current job (tm They Might Be Giants). But I don't get paid to wrap rocks with string. And no, now that you mention it, I don't get paid to write this during work hours, either, but I- hey. Mind your own business.

So the other day while I was in my cube-shaped employee freshness container, subjecting my poor, unsuspecting brain cells to Microsoft Excel-induced torture, I started thinking about the cubicle. Mostly about how the potential for this extremely variable medium has been overlooked in the petty interest of corporate productivity. Normal cubicle setup has got to be the most unimaginative layout possible. Squares. There's a reason all the hepcats called the boring people 'squares' during the fifties. (And if it wasn't the fifties, it was some other era I wasn't alive for and about which I know only what the Back to the Future movies have taught me). They called 'em squares because the square is the most contemptible of all the geometric figures, the only possible exception being the line segment (source: This Century's Most Influential Geometric Configurations, by Edward Q. Schnellar). There's so many more exciting shapes out there! Give me a parallelogram any day of the week. Or an acute triangle.

Adhering to the standard cubicle structure may be practical, but it sure is boring. I think a strong case can be made for secret cut-throughs, specialized cubicle areas, and a general labyrinth-esque layout. I intend to make that case, so that at the very least my daydreams can be realized on paper. I'm pretty sure no one will help me reconfigure an entire office based on my whim. Spoilsports.

Now, I'm a reasonably tall person. Abnormally tall, according to some. You know who you are. Jerks. Short jerks. The cubicle wall hits me at approximately my nose. And by 'hits' I mean 'is about as tall as.' I don't mean to imply that I have to deal with abusive, anthropomorphic walls that lash out at my face regularly. Nor do I mean that I am clumsy and run into them. Look, I should have just said that the walls are about five and a half feet tall. But I digress. My height allows me to look out over the realm of Cubicleland to see the stuffed chicken someone keeps on their top shelf and the ten other people whose heads extend into the stratosphere of Cubicleland. Handy when I'm looking for someone, kind of awkward to hunch if I'm avoiding someone. Not that I've created enemies at work, or anything like that, but these secretaries will talk your ear off if they catch you. I'm just sayin'.

Secret cut-throughs are a simple way of improving everything, with no exceptions, and don't try to tell me otherwise. My current location leaves my secret cut-through options limited. Option One: I can have covert access to the copy and fax cubicle. Any possible benefit is offset by the fact that the door to this area is only about two feet away from my own door. And also by the fact that it's a copier. I was over being excited about Xerox machines after I copied my face in third grade. Moving on. Option Two is to have a door to the secretary's cube. This idea earns a coveted spot in the 'thanks but no thanks' category. Doing anything to facilitate the passage of sound from her airspace to mine could result in violence by way of me lobbing items of increasing mass over what little wall does separate us. But even if the secret cut-through option isn't an option for me now, that doesn't mean it won't be utilized in my overall imaginary cubicle design. Secret cut-throughs could increase employee cooperation, decrease travel time and would really come in handy should an impromptu game of Capture the Flag break out.

On to layout. Although a loose basis for this idea, the movie Labyrinth used to scare the crap out of me. Muppets are supposed to be cuddly and funny creatures, not baby-stealing evil myrmidons. Oh, and if there's any thing creepier than David Bowie singing while strutting through an op-art come to life while wearing those, uh, "pants," then please don't tell me what it is, lest my mind break into a thousand shining pieces and I careen into madness. The idea of the labyrinth itself has inspired my own maze, which I have dubbed Cubarynth, from the Latin for 'friggin' awesome.' Forget about clear-cut perpendicular hallways. I'm talking about twisted corridors, countless dead ends and a mythical creature or two that I'll have the folks in the lab whip up. I'm hoping for a unicorn and a gryphon, but I'd settle for a couple of centuars.

There’ll be prizes for the first one through, and to confuse matters, the walls could move, guided by my patented random-Cubarynth generating software. Complete with people-sensing lasers so no one gets smooshed. Come on, I'm a weirdo with an overactive imagination, not a sadist. The secret tunnels we went over earlier would factor in greatly here, as would specialized cubicle areas.

Now, when I say 'specialized cubicle areas,' I don't mean copiers and fax machines and mailboxes. How boring. I was actually thinking of 'specialized' referring to something more along the lines of ice-skating and various kinds of ethnic foodstuffs. Also, I'd like to request a lofted cube with a roof so I can run a space heater to thaw my fingers out a little bit. And maybe a fourth wall, if it’s not too much trouble. As a temp, I only warrant three and one-fifth walls. It's not like I'm doing anything illicit (most of the time) or am even in there for more than an hour a day. Half a wall, people. That's all I ask for. Or I'm gonna put up a sign that reads "Lisa - captured from unemployment Jan '04. Enjoys butterscotch pudding, hooded sweatshirts and shiny objects. Please do not tap on the glass.”

But back to specialized cubicles. Once my labyrinth superstructure is complete, they will form both a rewards system and places to take a break when participants get tired of the rat race. So to speak. Other possibilities include a smoothie bar, a petting zoo and libraries. I'd like to work in one cubicle where the entire floor is an old-school Nintendo Power Pad, if at all possible. A ball pit would be nice, as would a salt-water fish tank. As long as I don't have to clean it.

Yeah, I'd take Cubicleland to a whole new level. Where once there was mind-numbing spreadsheets and echoing empty keyboard tapping, there shall spring forth a new era of clandestine tunnels and confusing mazes. But more on the 'Wow, this place doesn't suck' end of the spectrum than the 'Looks like Chuck E. Cheese had a going-out-of-business sale' end.

Perhaps you're beginning to get the impression that I am not cut out for a life of cubes, what with my constant attempts to imagine a world where my job doesn't suck as much as it does now. That I would perhaps be better off choosing a different path. The path of, say, an eccentric billionaire, who came into her money under mysterious circumstances, but everyone’s cool with that, and they indulge any weird tendencies she may or may not have. And they all want to be her friend, but not because of the money, it's be because of her winning personality. And also she's married to Orlando Bloom. And she never has to do laundry and her cats don't throw up quite as much as they do now. And dibs on the Orlando Bloom part.

Until then, I’m working on it. For all you know, this job could be step one of my billion dollar mysterious circumstances. Shh.

Ten Non-Work Things I Do at Work

1. Write emails
2. Run a moderately successful pony-ride company
3. Work on my breakdancing moves
4. Crossword puzzles
5. Wonder how you can get an online degree in Nursing
6. Stare thoughtfully
7. Debate if overtime is worth it today
8. Hope I never have to get treated by an online trained nurse
9. Switch keyboard keys around
10. This

So, Anyway...

On my drive to work - and on my way home as well, oddly enough - there is a huge, confusing pile of dirt just off of the highway. It’s not the fact that the dirt is there that puzzles me. Large, random piles of dirt are consistent with and even necessary to Indiana’s unofficial motto of ‘Build Where You Land, ‘Cuz Subdivisionness Is Next To Godliness!’ It’s not even the sheer size of the mound, although it is about four stories tall and roughly the same area as a football field. That makes me wonder, but more along the lines of “Who’s building an underground lair, is it evil, and how do I get me an invite?”

I could get past all this and ignore the mystery dirt if it weren’t for one glaring abnormality: there is a plane resting atop this urban alp. It’s as if the pilot was flying along, noticed the dirt and pressed the button for ‘mountaintop invulnerability,’ but it failed to engage. Whoops! I hate it when that happens. No, that can’t be right. The plane isn’t damaged in any way. It looks like it was put there. But that implies intent and meaning and other things that I don’t see. But that’s not all, because next we come to the proverbial cherry of bewilderment on this hot fudge sundae of confusion: the sign on the mountain right beneath the tail of the plane. Logical sign text might include “Yeah, it’s dirt” or “For Sale: One Plane, slightly used” or “Why are you looking up here? Keep your eyes on the road.” This sign, however, says in large red letters: PUBLIC WELCOME. Welcome to what? I’ve never seen any public there, unless ‘bulldozer’ is now a synonym for ‘general public.’

Maybe there’s something really amazing on the other side of the dirt, like an interdimensional portal to CareBear land or free pony rides. Or just more dirt, which seems the most likely. I really don’t know, and further investigation is impossible because as I mentioned earlier, I’m driving. One must pay attention when driving, and this is especially true in the city of Indianapolis, where the DMV declares themed driving days and tells everyone but me. I don’t know how to get on the mailing list to know when it’s going to be French Connection day, but I’d like to find out. Just the other day it was, evidently, Rev’n Screech! Day. Truckers have their Bring Your Blind Dog To Work And Sure, Let It Drive And Feel Free To Take A Nap Or Something Because You Can Be Ding-Danged Sure Everything Will Go Just Fine Day. Other popular days include Last One To The Fast Lane Is A Rotten Egg and Rain Has No Bearing On My Driving Ability Day, weather permitting, of course.

I find the horn to be such an imprecise method of voicing my extreme disenchantment with theme day participants. ‘Beep’ really doesn’t express just how strongly I feel that perhaps the fifteen-passenger van with a partially completed game of ladder-Jenga on its roof doesn’t belong in the fast lane. Or that I wasn’t leaving room for you to cut me off, actually you just invaded my ‘bubble of safety,’ a procedure I adopted soon after the last Rev’n Screech! Day.

Hey, Rev’n Screech! sounds like Reverend Screech. Whatever happened to Dustin Diamond? I suppose he could be a clergyman now, I can’t imagine there’s too much work for a guy who was and will always be Screech Powers. But enough about Screech.

No, wait. I just did some digging on Dustin Neil Diamond. Yes. His middle name is Neil. Yahoo for parents who are either huge fans of ‘Sweet Caroline’ or just have really sick, twisted senses of humor. Also, he dated Candace Cameron. That’s right, Screech dated DJ Tanner. What?! Dude, don’t be mixing up my beloved sitcom worlds like that! Come on, Bayside is about 300 miles away from San Francisco, anyway. On a related note, which would be sadder: looking that up to see if dating would have been plausible, or knowing it already because you think about sitcom conglomeration regularly? I had to look it up, for what it’s worth. But really, let’s not even go there. Next thing you know, there’ll be bizarre crossovers like Angela Bower leaving Tony Micelli to marry Danny Tanner, and Officer Carl Winslow busting JT Lambert for some hijink or another. And they can appear in Uncle Phil’s court for the hearing. No- I won’t go down that path. That way, madness lies.

So anyway. Weird stuff on the road. Later on my daily journey, we come to the giant sculptures. I call them sculptures, because I don’t know what else to call a 20-foot tall hammer and sickle-esque objet d’arte. Or why someone would have it in their backyard. Or any of it’s nightmare inducing bretheren, for that matter – giant French carnies? Why, I ask you, why? Then again, maybe it’s not a backyard. I suppose it could be a park. Or an invisible modern art museum. What else could explain the giant metal segmented insect carcass and the oversized immobile slingshot next to the yellow Communist pillar?

At least I can be fairly certain those monuments exist. I've been known to see things that, strictly speaking, don't exist. And I'm not talking about the Loch Ness Monster or George Clooney's acting ability. I haven’t managed to spot either of those, though not for lack of trying. An example, perhaps. Once when I was driving I saw an unidentified object on the road ahead. Having searched my mental image banks without finding a suitable match, I logically deduced that it was, in fact, a buffalo-headed man, come into existence through a curse, a leap in evolution, or perhaps the reemergence of a long-forgotten Egyptian god, the enigmatic Buffiris. Have I mentioned that it was dusk, when the sun plays tricks on your eyes? And that I have an overly active imagination?

That being said, I was mildly panicking and in the midst of plotting just how to escape this beast which would inevitably charge my car as I drove by. For that is the attack method favored by four out of five buffalo-headed men. I had decided on the 'evasion by means of undue clerity' technique. Basically I was gonna floor it and get the hell past this monstrosity. The advantage was clearly on my side; I mean, a buffalo head, by the laws of aerodynamics alone, is not built for speed. Surely I would emerge victorious with minimal damage to my paint job.

I approached as stealthily as one can in a large green SUV, and was preparing for the burst of speed when I realized that the buffalo-headed man was actually one of my neighbors riding a horse. I know, I can't explain it either. I blame the early evening sunlight filtered through the surrounding trees and the ancient god Buffiris wished to remain incognito. In any case, I floored it so as not to waste the adrenaline that was already pumping through my system and managed to escape the shapeshifting equestrian unscathed. I forget where I was going with that.

But anyway as I'm typing this, I'm realizing how absolutely disgusting this keyboard is. It's covered in caked on I-don't-want-to-know-what. Seriously, it looks like someone did some X-treem keyboardin' over at the public dirt pile to the point where I don't even like to touch the thing. In a misdirected attempt at retaliation, I've decided to move some of the keys around. Ha. Now I feel superior to all those unfamiliar with the home row.

Man, it's hard to end these 'let's see where this thought leads' writings. So in the interest of motley continuity, I'll sum up in with a limerick, undeniably the noblest of poetic forms.

On the road the distractions abound
What with bisontine gods running 'round
This keyboard needs bleach
And what happened to Screech?
Help yourself to the pinko dirt mound.

And as an added note, limerics are harder to write than I initially thought. That one can count for the time I was actually in Limerick for an entire hour, and much to my chagrin, I couldn't come up with an original limerick to save my life. Count it.

Ten Lab-Related Jobs More Exciting than Mine

10. Cloning dinosaurs
9. Working in a bar that serves shots in test tubes
8. Glassware cleaner (the person, not the liquid)
7. Hospital lab, because grossed out is better than bored
6. Glassware cleaner (the liquid, not the person)
5. Breeding Lab puppies
4. Level 5 CDC, Hazmat suit required
3. Mad science, any branch
2. An actual lab rat
1. Any job on C.S.I.