Yesterday at the Bus Depot we had a field trip. Unbeknownst to me, we were heading downtown to the “Challenger Learning Center” where they take mass crowds of screaming dirty mulch eaters to learn about space and shit... and then wreck the gift shop. My boss tells me we’re going to do a “team building” exercise with the planning department. a.k.a. the three other people in the cubicles around me that I ignore daily via headphones. SO FREAKING EXCITED.
By team building exercises, I’m picturing the scene from mean girls where the crowd of girls is supposed to catch each classmate as they fall backward from a step. Clearly in this scenario I’m the girl everyone moved out of the way for so her ass could eat some floor. But what we actually did was much, much worse. First, we got to eat. I like eating. Obviously this isn’t the terrible part. Before the meal, a woman comes in and introduces two asian men as “delegates from China here to sit in an American meeting” (speaking very slowly as if we were her first grade class). This isn’t the terrible part either. And what were my new Asian friends’ names? Not Yao or Wong or MeiMei. Nope, their names were Mike and Jason. Mike was the stereotypical tiny Asian man and Jason was created by the breeding of Sloth from the Goonies and an Asian woman with a Mr. Ed grill. Mike sits down next to me, introduces himself and tells me he likes sweet tea.
“in China I always like ahh hotta tea… but hea in Meryca.. I always like ahhh swit tea, swit tea!”
Then he took a photo of me with his Nikon. Then he took photos of every other person. Then he took a picture of Jason eating his sandwich. Then he took a picture of himself eating his sandwich. Then he walked out of the room. Then he took pictures with his iPhone. This continued throughout the entire meal.
In the middle coneheading my wrap, a grown man and woman come in dressed like astronauts. The man stands in front of the room and speaks about some space shit. I am not listening to him because I am busy trying to decipher whether his horrible accent is Mexican with a lisp or Russian with a stutter. Regardless, the little fat astronaut was giving us directions about what we were going to have to do next. If I had paid attention at that time, I could’ve realized what I was getting myself into and faked an asthma attack.
The astronaut with the ponytail comes up to me and hands me what appears to be either a pair of blue footie pajamas or a prison uniform. I was hoping I would get to play astronauts and convicts or adult daycare and Twitchy could be the pedophile in the onesie while I pretend the video camera I’m holding isn’t going to be sent directly to producers at Dateline… but no dice. I looked around the room and discovered that while I was stuffing my face fulla turkey sammy, that AstroMex had placed cards at each table that read things like: medical, communication, navigation, engineering, etc. Mine read: ISOLATION. Fitting, although I was hoping to be at the PROBE station. Because, well, who doesn’t love a good probe? (insert winky face) I am instructed to put the NASA costume on and zip it up. I laugh. No one else does.
We put on the effing costumes and I think we’re at least going to ride like a space shuttle simulator or something. No, we’re going to pretend to be a space team and simulate our own moon mission. Okay… so does the ground at least shake? No. It doesn't.
Were taken to a little room and they make me sit down on a stool and play with robotic arms. Not the worst thing in the world. Yeah, until RussiMexiFattykins comes over and shouts that I’m supposed to use the arms to pick up the metal plates in the corner and count the holes in them then write it all down. Each plate has what appears to be 3789467298472 holes in it. F THIS SHIT. I hate math. And counting. And the rash I’m getting from this stupid ass polyester suit that probably housed a naked fat man playing dress up before me wearing it.
A buzzer goes off and we are all told to get in a glass room together. I’m pressed up against the window so I don’t graze asses with Twitchy. Another buzzer. Now we each have to “duck and cover” under our stations because there’s a meteor shower. Twelve grown adults in the fetal position underneath tables meant for small children. COOL. In the end, the “team building” exercise built nothing but my hatred for space and my coworkers. And I used to want moon shoes.
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