alma mater
No Thanksgiving photos up yet as a certain someone has not yet managed to successfully upload them properly so I can get to them. I’ll try not to say anything that might start a fight, but I’m really bad at that. In the interim, I would like to mention that over the turkey holidays, I did get to meet one of Superstar’s charming acquaintances, who we’ll call Bic, because of his titillating discourse on the possible methods of jabbing a ballpoint pen into the back of someone’s head during a graduate school course, along with the consequences of not actually piercing the skull. Finally, someone with as morbid a sense of humor as me. “We’re like kindred spirits,” I told a disturbed Superstar, “and he plays hockey too.”
Bic works at a winery in Modesto, which upon initial discovery, seems like a pretty sweet deal. Think wine at every company off site and other boozing company perks and you’re probably well on your way to many a person’s dream job. Of course, every ostensibly “cool” job comes with a drawback, and I guess for Bic it’s the snobs who stand around inventing flowery, nonsensical adjectives that’d make a pink elephant blush blue in embarrassment.
“It’s like Jean Kelly in a white silk dress,” Bic said, making a motion of holding a wine glass and waving it around under his nose. “What?” Superstar and I said, looking at him. “That’s what one of these guys said,” Bic replied, “to describe the wine. Another one came up with ‘This one is a little angular.’ Angular, I mean, what is that?!” I had no idea. “Most of these freaks think they’re something else because they’re from Davis,” Bic continued.
“Hey,” Superstar said, “Jess is from Davis.” Oh no, I thought, I am, but please please don’t associate me with those nutcases. “Uh yeah, I said, they have a Viticulture and Enology degree there. I mean seriously, I still can’t believe you can get a degree in that.” I looked nervously at Bic and then back to Superstar. (And yes, I went to a really weird school for undergrad, where I milked cows and where people can get degrees in wine making; what can I say.)
The other drawback to working at a winery in Modesto, is, well, Modesto. When you have to drive 45 minutes just to play hockey, you know you’re in the central valley. Bic was still remarkably good natured about it, and had managed to meet us in the city after an hour’s drive and another hour’s BART ride. The plus to having a guy who works at a winery meet you for dinner is that, needless to say, he picks out some tasty wine. “It’s like Brad Pitt in a tux with tails,” I said to Superstar, after sipping the Syrah. He looked at me oddly. “Hey, I’m just trying this out,” I said. My best quotes are wasted on Superstar, who always looks at me like I’m an asylum inmate spouting Shakespeare.
All this talk of wine and Davis snobbery reminded me of my old alma mater, which really never struck me as a snobby school. After all, I can’t think of a whole lot of things less glamorous than standing ankle deep in cow muck and shoveling hay and working the milking machine. I also remember some terrified students running from livestock, goats eating people’s backpacks, and angry lab rats attacking my animal science TA. I don’t particularly remember any cocktail parties or wine tasting events, but maybe I just slept in that morning.
And after all these years, they’re still asking me for money. I got a call yesterday at my desk phone at work from someone claiming to be from the U.C. Davis alumni association. He said he just wanted to confirm my contact information with me and my occupation for the big alumni directory they’re putting together. “It’s going to be hardbound and contains images of the school, and has an accompanying CD.” “Uh huh,” I said, as I continued to type. “So thanks for confirming your contact info, you can reserve your copy of the directory for only $79.99 which includes the CD. We won’t be printing a new version for another five years.” “What?” I said. “No, I don’t want a directory.” It took me another five minutes of convincing this guy to shut up before I could end the call. After taking my financial aid away my last two quarters of undergrad, now this school has the nerve to ask for $80 for a phone book. My word, even Pac Bell gives out the phone books for free, and they charge you for everything. This is not to mention that in five years, my current contact info will most certainly be 100% outdated and useless. Of course, maybe they need the money so the viticulture students can keep coming up with new and ridiculous ways of describing mashed, fermented grapes in a bottle. Amen to that.
