Over those two years I managed to narowly avoid angry homeowners, protective dogs, a very violent ram, and a home literally covered in peacocks. They sat on the roof and would jump down and bleat at me, trying to peck my shins (I assume, they never got close enough). I finally quit a week after I was bitten in the hand by a dog and – without being aware of it because of serious shock – drove myself all the way to the hospital bleeding profusely. I only have vague, fuzzy memories of how I managed to get there.

Of course they went to radio transmitted meters shortly afterwards. I think I broke some streak the company had going for most days without an accident too.

That was a fun job.

On the third day before going to break I stopped by my supervisor’s desk and told him I was going to lunch. He looked at me strange and said “Okay?” Then I said “Well I ain’t coming back.” Then he thanked me and said he appreciated me letting him know since most people just walk out and he never hears from them again.

Good times.

Did I mention several people did the “Charmin Bear Dance” for me?

Besides that, the freezer wasn’t hooked up to the truck, so the ice cream had to be kept cold with dry ice 9and that stuff hurts if you’re digging around in it for ice cream.) The truck was black, so it was like a huge furnace.

When you got to a neighborhood, you had to drive literally 5mph so kids could catch up to you, and circle the block two or three times. The horrible ear-splitting and mangled version of “Pop-goes-the-weasel” wold ring in your ears for hours afterwards. People living in the neighborhoods hated you, and half the time kids would run up with no money, expecting ice cream anyway.

Worst part was, I was technically a “contractor” (this was all totally under the table, you see) so I got paid a percentage of what I made. And it was so hot and boring, I ate up all my meager profits in ice cream.

The worst job was not a cashier, as I was. I abused a fair amount of hand sanitizer, but that was nothing compared to the guy we hired to clean up the booths. Yes, he was a jizz mopper. He got 8 bucks an hour to clean all the *ahem* emissions off every surface in the back. I’d only ever poked my head back there once in the 6 months I worked there and I instantly regretted it.

The worst thing was that this kid constantly was bugging the manager about when he was going to get promoted to cashier. The manager didn’t tell him that he had no intention of promoting him–it was hard enough to find one guy willing to do that job!! So he was stuck. I wonder if he’s still there, wishing and hoping for that promotion…

Also, I had to lie to the high school girl that she even WAS pregnant. She asked to see me right before the show started taping and told me she wasn’t sure if she was still pregnant. I was confused, since I had talked to her earlier in the week and she said she was with child. She told me that the day before she had visited a doctor and that he had “taken care of everything.” It took me a second to realize she telling me she had gotten an abortion.

I would have been fired if this chick had admitted on camera that she was no longer pregnant, so I got her to take a pregnancy test (I had a million of them in my desk, along with tons of fake engagement rings – awesome office supplies). She peed on the stick, I looked at it and told her that I guess the abortion “didn’t take,” because she was still pregnant. She was so happy.

I quit later that day. I’ll never forgive myself for making this poor girl think she was still pregnant.

Wow, that felt kinda good to get off my chest.

there’s nothing quite like being yelled at, cursed at, hung up on and preached to at least once each in the course of a five hour shift.

and we had to give our full attention to the calls, even though it was rote by the fourth day, which meant that puzzles and books weren’t allowed. very boring.

the most interesting part was watching the nutty old ladies who had been doing it for years…

never, ever again…

Off the top of my head, one of the worst had to be working for a clinical research clearing house that was collecting data for a new diabetic ulcer drug.

A little history is in order: Diabetics are prone to foot ulcers due to poor blood circulation and inactivity. These ulcers are basically open wounds on the bottom of the feet, weeping and disgusting. As part of the study, doctors would trace the ulcers on a plastic wrap (Saran Wrap)to get the overall size. They would then send the tracing to our offices so we could track the changes in size.

On my first day, bright and early, I was told I would be analyzing the data the doctors sent in.

I was led to a room that only had a wash basin and another door leading out of the room. I was instructed to wash my hands thoroughly, which I did. I was then told to put on a pair of surgical gloves and not touch ANYTHING once they were on. I put them on, the other door was opened for me, and I was led into the room. The trainer that was with me stopped short, not entering the room I was now in the middle of. I turned to ask why I needed the gloves, and the response was “Dibetics often contract Tuberculosis, and since the “data” I would be analyzing (the foot tracings) had come into direct contact with open wounds, there was a chance I could contract the disease. “Oh, by the way, don’t touch your face or any other body part while you are in this room, or until you have scrubbed out. We don’t want you to come down with something. If you need to use the restroom, use your (covered) elbow to hit the call button, and someone will show up to let you out of the room.”

Before the trainer had shut the door behind me, I hit the call button and met them at the door, asking to be let out. I stripped off the gloves and marched out of the building, never to return.

I think I showered twenty times over the course of the next two days.