Eclectic is a nice word.

So, way back when, once upon a time when I first started grad school, I was having a hard time finding part-time work. I went on a provost fellowship, but it was only for a year. There was no way that I was going to "just" study for the year. I knew that money would run out soon and very soon, and I didn't want to accrue debt in a career field known not to be so lucrative (ahem, not at all lucrative...).

Such a quagmire led to frantic days of searching for a grad-student friendly job. I arrived in my new town perhaps two weeks before classes started, and my roommate and I spent days scouring the local newspapers, monster.com, and every other available source for jobs and eating salads for dinner while sitting on the floor. It was the magical time we all love to reminisce about, except-not at all. I needed income to cover rent.

About this time, classes started. Fortunately, my program offered night classes only. This left some time to continue the hunt. I spent a week job hunting in the days and attending my first grad school classes at night. I drove six hours the first weekend to go to my good friend Jess's wedding in Georgia and drove back the same day. The following week, I found an advertisement in a student newspaper offering $200 per month to participants. I saw it as a boon. Two hundred would definitely help out. The catch? I'd be selling my plasma twice a week. I figured it couldn't be so terrible. I'd faithfully given blood approximately every three months since I'd turned seventeen with a few lapses, altruist that I fashioned myself. So, by my estimation, giving plasma for money would be about the same deal. Big needle prick, some light-headedness followed by a need to prop my feet up, a good 20 minutes, and then it would all be over with juice to celebrate.

The first time I "donated" plasma was almost o.k. It was definitely worse than giving blood. Far worse. Giving blood only requires removing something from your body. Giving plasma requires donating your blood,  waiting for the machine to spin off the plasma, and receiving your blood sans plasma but with fluids -cold fluids - back into your veins. Not comfortable, not fun, and not quick. In addition, before this enjoyable process gets started, a donor has to go through about 3 hours of paperwork and tests, and I'm not exaggerating. The first time through the plasma donation process, I didn't get sick, and I didn't die. I did have some difficulty driving myself home. But, in the end, besides the discomfort, it seemed like an o.k. way to make a few bucks until I found something a bit more standard.

About a week later, I returned to donate more plasma, hoping the second attempt would go more smoothly and steal fewer hours from my day. I arrived early in the morning to a super-air-conditioned room. I had awoken approximately one hour before, and I wasn't completely warmed up for the day. The nurse had to check my pulse twice that morning. It was too low the first time for donation. I offered to run a few laps around outside. Once the pulse passed the check, I moved on to the waiting room where I saw one wiry man I had encountered on my first day there. I noticed he had nice veins.

Another nurse led me to my chair and checked my arms. She poked me with the needle, and I nearly came off the chair. I'm a champion blood donor, or so I like to think, but something here was wrong. She inquired, "Does it hurt, or is it the idea of it?" It certainly wasn't the idea of anything causing pain. It hurt more than any needle stick I've had, and she decided to re-position the needle just by wiggling it around inside my arm, eliciting more groans and teeth gritting from me. At this point, she was probably thinking that I was the biggest pansy she's seen in a while, and I was wondering why she couldn't find a vein. The morning progressed without getting much better. The donation was taking forever, and the nurse kept returning to my side, frowning, and sighing about how my blood had stopped flowing. My body seemed to know what was best at this point. The nurse, on the other hand... The situation was resolved when the nurse returned and offered to stick my other arm, at which point I said no and asked to leave. Her concern was, "But this bowl of blood. We've got to get this blood back in you." No thanks, lady. Just flush it and get me out of here. I was allowed to leave.

All week long, the bruise on my arm continued to grow. Over the next few weeks, it morphed through several of ROY.G.BIV's letters. I'm not entirely convinced that nurse actually got the needle into the right place. In the end, I gave up on the easy money and found a job as a supervisor at a C-store on campus (think, gas station snacks).

The lesson in it all, for me, was that what comes freely ought to be given freely. We don't choose to be born, to have blood coursing through our veins. We don't achieve it. And so, I shouldn't sell it. Good to know, especially on nights like tonight when I start to think creatively about income-generation.

Pick your habits carefully. They stick.

Bumming around the world as a professional English teacher takes it's toll on a person, mind, body, and soul. Along the way, we pick up languages and customs, bouts of food poisoning, and friends. I've also discovered that I've picked up more than a few bad, or simply odd, habits. The habits I've developed are purely of my own device; I wouldn't attribute these to culture's influence, necessarily. They're more the products of circumstance, necessity, and lack of options.  Here they are, to the extent that I can recall:

China
1. stir fry
2. laundry on the line
3. not exercising as often
4. walking & busing
5. 2 hour lunches
6. sharing food at meals
7. watching t.v. shows online
8. tea
9. taking my time at the grocery store
10. limited AC

Zambia
11. leaving food out and open
12. salt and vinegar chips
13. eating with hands
14. walking
15. "iwe"
16. not leaving the house after dark
17. cokes with sugar
18. always being on the look-out for pick-pockets
19. bringing food to share at work
20. solitaire on my iPod