In Antarctica, I am a Star.
On some days, I am assigned to Dispatch. This is the cushiest part of being a Shuttles Driver in Antarctica. First, you’re inside. As if you needed any more reason to volunteer for this position (and by “volunteer,” I mean “push through the other people in the office, elbow someone’s face, smash them into the wall, and stick your butt in the Dispatch chair, with a vice-like grip on the seat cushion so nobody else can get there first), you also get to be “in charge.” When calls come in for taxi runs or shuttle pick-ups and drop-offs, I get to look at the board and decide who I like the least and holler at them to go and get their gear on, step out in the freezing cold, and go pick up something or someone and drop it off. What I really like to do is juuuust as they get back to the office and go through the 20 minute ordeal of taking off their gear, then schedule them for something else. Preferably with a time crunch attached. And preferably with a van that hasn’t been warmed up. Or put them on a Delta, if they’re *really* acting up. Another bonus when on Dispatch is that I get to sit at the computer and surf the internet. I’ve given up perezhilton.com while I’m here. Although I feel this loss to my very core, and although it means that Paige is going to be way more informed of my much-loved Hollywood gossip, I can only hope that she will send me updates on the important stuff. Like when Lindsay Lohan ODs, or when someone sues Christian Slater for inappropriate touching. Believe me, it’s been a huge sacrifice, but this is a harsh continent. One has to stay alert and focused on the job at hand.
What was I talking about?
Oh, yes. Fame. I am famous in Antarctica. Apparently, in Antarctica, I have a “great radio voice.” No less than four people have told me so. There are women and men all over McMurdo station swooning when they hear me say things like “Shuttle Jen, Shuttle Ops” or “Shuttle Ops, go ahead.” Literally, tens of people think I should be the new Voice of Mac Station. And I will not disappoint them. Who cares if I can’t get work back home because I have a “slight lisp” or a “nasally voice” or my “face isn’t good enough for radio.” Let the casting agents and directors be damned. In Antarctica, I am a god.
live from the ice 