I Got Up Early For This?

It’s 8:00 on Saturday morning. A morning breaking too soon after a night of playing online poker with Ville, drinking too much boxed wine and eating too many Flaming Hot Cheetos.

Lynette is gently waking me, telling me my coffee is already made. She then gives me the bad news: “Don’t forget we’re going to the Plasma Center today with Ville, Liebchen.”

We’ve never donated plasma before, but with two short paychecks we need money if our family of six wants to eat this weekend. Plus, rent is due. My stomach aching, I stumble out of bed and take a shower. Then the Cheetos hit me.

Note to Self: Never, ever, under any circumstance, eat those again. Especially with boxed wine...

With trembling hands I get myself ready to be hooked up to a blood recycling machine for 45 minutes. Aspirin? No, my stomach can’t handle that this morning. Tagamet? No, it might be on the list of things I can’t take before donating. Breakfast. No, there’s nothing in the kitchen except leftover sauerkraut and baked beans. Oof… no thank you.

While tying my shoes, the phone rings. It’s Ville, who says, “I was kind of drunk last night. Did we say you guys were going to pick me up this morning?”

Around 9:00 I pour a cup of coffee for the car ride and we leave, looking forward to the $85 that we will each make donating plasma. The plan is to go get groceries afterward, so we pick up Ville and we’re all laughs and wisecracks as we drive across town. It’s game day and all of the streets within eight blocks of the university are congested and irksome.

As we enter the Plasma Center down on the Strip, near the campus, I note that most of the people waiting to donate are dressed in OSU orange and black. "Poor sods are probably here to get money so they can buy tickets to the game," I think to myself.

We turn in our two forms of ID, get the papers to fill out and sit down. Of course, Ville and I joke about some of the questions. One asks what was the last thing I ate and I write, “Toast and a soft-boiled egg.”

Why in hell did I do that? I never eat that for breakfast, especially not today. I was afraid that if I hadn’t eaten they might reject me. Now I’m stressing out about not having that egg. What if, when my blood and urine tests come back, they tell me, “Sorry. You can’t donate. You have no trace of egg in your system and we never accept plasma from people who’d stoop to lie about a stupid egg.” Ville tells me I’m a stu.

Across the room is Rasta Dude. Next to him is Middle-Aged Football Fan, and next to Ville is Rice Krispies and Beer for Breakfast College Boy. Then, in walks She Who Will Not Stop Talking.

We each get called into little interview cubicles where we are given specimen cups. After I fill mine up to the line, Anemic Male Nursing Student, in front of everyone in the waiting room, dips a slip of litmus paper into my cup and tells me in his monotone mumble that I can now get rid of it. Get rid of it? Can I just sit it over by the coffeemaker? I take it to the bathroom instead and return to where Ville and Nettl are held hostage by She Who Will Not Stop Talking.

After Ville goes through the specimen cup routine she’s told that her blood sugar is up too high and she cannot donate. Must be all CokaRummas she drank last night, not to mention the half-a-bag of giant M&Ms. What will she do while we’re in the big room having our blood removed and returned to us? I mention that there’s a college bar across the road, but it’s only 10:30 in the morning. I then say that if we were in Vienna no one would even notice if she drank a couple of beers at 10:30 in the morning. She says she’s cool. She doesn’t mind waiting.

While this discussion is going on, She Who Will Not Stop Talking informs Nettl that they only give $15, not $85, for plasma. To make the full $175 a month you have to come in twice a week, not twice a month. Oh, nice! What if I get pulled over by a cop who takes one look at my track marks and promptly throws my ass in jail, which automatically disqualifies me for donating plasma for a full 15 months? Plus I have a hefty fine to pay as well as bail! WTF?

Nettl is called to the counter where she gets her finger poked. When she comes back she tells me the lancet is really tiny. “Didn’t hurt at all.”

When it’s my turn, Anemic Male Nursing Student rams a jousting pole into my fingertip, which is immediately taken over by a huge purple bruise. I jump about two feet into the air.

Nettl’s called into a cubicle and when she returns she informs me that she can’t donate because they couldn’t find her veins. When I’m called, I’m told the same thing.

“You can, of course, let us try,” Anemic Male Nursing Student says.
“No thank you,” I say with a furtive laugh. “If a lancet can be as painful as that one was, I don’t think it’s worth fifteen bucks to have two huge needles driven into my arms.” I go back out and tell Nettl and Ville that I’ve been rejected too.

I notice Rasta Dude was accepted, as well as Middle-Aged Football Fan and Rice Krispies and Beer for Breakfast College Boy. She Who Will Not Stop Talking is a regular. Go figure.

“Well, that was a wasted morning,” Nettl grumbles.
“At least we spent the morning together,” Ville replies, the eternal optimist.

I suggest that since we all need to brave the evil Walmart Super Center sometime today, we might as well get it over with and go together. This meets with approval, so we head to the dreaded store of hate.

It’s a nightmare. Not only is it Game Day, it’s also the first of the month and a Saturday, and the place is full of screaming kids, toothless Uncle Dads, obese people in motorized carts, and the usual Walmart denizens in polyester and John Deere caps.

After Ville rants about the “stupid people” I explain to her that these people are just hillbillies, without the hills. We look at each other and say in unison, “They’re just Billies,” and we laugh so hard we’re afraid we’re going to wet ‘em. There we are, standing next to the corn dogs and Little Juan burritos for some time, concentrating very hard on not peeing our pants.

Later, in the cereal aisle, Ville tells me she always liked Lucky Charms, especially the marshmallows, and I say that those marshmallows are the reason I always hated Lucky Charms.

“They’re not really marshmallows, are they.” I say. “I mean, marshmallows get all soft, but these just turn slimy and weird. If we can put people on the moon, Ville, why in hell can’t we have a reasonable marshmallow facsimile in our Lucky Charms?”

We finally check out and head for the car. Then we take Ville home and help unload her groceries. Tonight, Nettl, Joel and I are going over there to play poker. Think I’ll be leaving the Flaming Hot Cheetos at home.