Saturday, August 03, 2002

On squishing squid and dancing the night away

I was reminded yesterday just why I prefer working with microbes and NOT macroscopic life-forms. I mentioned before having to chase baby squid around with a pippette. Well, those squid, once caught, were destined for DEATH. After exposing them to mutant bacteria, I knew I had to put them to sleep, because inevitably I would have to grind them up to get the bacteria that had colonized them. I had to place them in plastic tubes, suck all the water out around them, and then put them on ice. Now, I know what you're thinking. . . Amber, they're SQUID for goodness sake, who cares? I know, they aren't cuddly or warm or fuzzy. But they are BABY squid, and they are undeniably cute, with their big heads and eyes as they flutter about on their tiny winglike fins. . . *sigh*. .. .they are just squid. But they look so confused when I drain all the water around them. They do little pushups on the bottom of the tube, flattened and gasping for water. And then they go on ice, where I like to imagine they simply fall asleep and never wake up.

I kill bacteria every single day, and think nothing of it.

Well, Friday Night was slated to be a night out at "The W," a beautiful club that Jess recommended we head to. I had to rush home after work to get prettified, and then hop into the car with Jess to go pick up Cheryl. They spent lots of time telling eachother how pretty their outfits looked, but not really saying much about me. I figure, I'm youngest and I don't need encouragment. The three of us arrive at The W just in time to slip under the velvet rope before the cover fee was applied--anyone in before nine is neither carded nor charged apparently. It was a sumptuously decorated place, lit by candles and furnished comfortably. Dance music purred and pounded in the background. We scurried upstairs to the bar to get our first drinks of the night. Jess was paying. She ordered water for herself, a margarita for Cheryl, and a Pina Colada for me. It was then that I noticed that our bartender was almost a direct clone of Hiram's own Jason, complete with curly blond hair. After hearing our orders, he laid his head on the bar and did not move it. We asked why and he told us "because. . .now I have to get the blender out." Apparently that was going to take alot out of him, but immediately he reanimated and went to work, the dramatic maneuver completed. Jess made sure to mention I had just turned 21, and he claimed to have already known this, since I ordered a pina colada. I don't know, I think there will never be a day I wouldn't want to order one. He howled a "woohoo!" when I told him I was from West Virginia, and I began to wonder if all bartenders would be like this.

It took a LONG time for the club to warm up. The people watching was superb, as there wasn't one unattractive person in the entire place. There was a black man in a complety white suit, effortlessly cool. There were tall blondes and flocks of asians, substantial bouncers patrolling, fake breasts covered by one button alone of a tailored shirt, martini's held delicately and travelling about the room. People were certainly dressed to impress, and we had great fun pointing out the best outfits.

Cheryl and Jess urged me to get my second drink, however I am stilly currently overwhelmed with all the options I now have. I'm used to being quite happy with a Dr. Pepper and Malibu Rum. The girls recommended a Midori Sour, and I figured, what the heck. I grabbed Jason-clone's attention, and told him what my friends said I should get. He asked me what I'd had to drink before, and suddenly he was my personal bar physician. Midori + rum was no good. What I wanted, apparently, was vodka and cranberry juice. You know, I've always gotten type-casted as innocent and goofy. I've always wanted to be experienced and cool. But that night I realized that there was alot to be said for appearing wide-eyed and funny. I got my drink consultation, and my drink, and went back to Cheryl and Jess.

And still nobody was dancing. I occasionly caught myself swaying or wiggling a little, because the music was very nice and groovy. And the crowd began to swell in size, and you could tell people WANTED to dance, but no one wanted to try and start the crowd, and fail. Then a big guy with sunglasses came in, lugging padded drums. The bongos were soon revealed, tuned, and the beat began to bounce out--and folks just could help but start dancing. It's a rather spontaneous miracle to me, that sudden transition from people standing around to people grooving together. And with vodka and rum smoothly running through my veins, I just danced. I've lectured several people on the principles of truly good dancing. It's not about looking cool, it's not about complex steps. It's about doing what feels good. I find it most rewarding, and frankly, I'm white. There's always going to be plenty of people out there with more style and groove than I have. So I'm dancing to have a good time, dammit. Besides, if you look like you're having a good time, trust me, you look pretty good.

It was great fun, but all too soon it was time to go home. And so I drank more water, and went to sleep. And today I'm at work, again, because I'm crazy. And today my dead squid had to be squished up. Such is the life of a microbiologist.

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