Velcrometer
Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks
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M. Giant's Velcrometer Throwing stuff at the internet to see what sticks |
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Tuesday, February 10, 2004 Feed Me Although I'm currently in the coolest job of my life, there are a few things I miss about the old job. I miss having half the commute time I do now. I miss a number of my old coworkers. I miss being chained to Call Management Systems monitors nine hours a day. Yes, I miss all of these things, except the last one. But right now, today, this minute, what I miss most are the vending machines. I don't know if I've made this clear, but I don't work at the MPR headquarters in downtown St. Paul. The show has its own small satellite office, a building near the confluence of the Mississippi River and Interstate 94. And there aren't enough of us here to support a vending machine. A fact which, today, weighs heavily on my heart. Or, more accurately, my stomach. We do have a kitchen, mind you. It's got a refrigerator/freezer and a microwave that'll be old enough to get into bars this June. And a water cooler and coffee machine. It also has a stove/oven and a dishwasher, which is a step up from my last job. And a Wurlitzer™ jukebox, which is pretty cool. Out back there's a deck with patio furniture, and a gas grill that we use for barbecues in the summer— I'm going to stop now before I completely torpedo any chance of making you feel sorry for me. Too late? Fine, screw it. Yes, we have a few amenities that wouldn't have been out of place in Silicon Valley five years ago, but I don't care about any of those right now because I'm hungryyyyy! I brought my breakfast from home, but I ate it already. I brought my lunch, and I ate that too. Ergo, I should be full. Yet I am not. Why is this? What is missing? Snacks! Snacks, I tell you! The most important meal of the day, if you're me. I need something tasty to snack on, preferably chocolatey, preferably crispy, preferably large. People come into my office, and I'm like a cartoon character hallucinating their transformations into giant Kit-Kats™. Moreover, now that I no longer have vending machines in my life, I have no use for change. It accrues in my pocket and on my night table and in out change bucket at an alarming rate now that there's more inflow than outgo. I still grab a handful of change every morning out of habit, but it just sits there uselessly in my pocket all day, mocking me. As if I didn't get enough mockery from inside my pants as it is. Today I thought, I don't have to live like this. I have a car here. I could go and get myself a snack. I actually went into Yahoo! Maps to find the nearest gas station. Sadly, we're in relative isolation here, and I would have been gone twenty minutes to fetch an eight-dollar package of Double-Stuf™ that would have been empty in my trash bin twenty minutes later, and that does nobody any good. Fortunately, our receptionist keeps a candy dish at her station. Unfortunately, the sucker I ganked from it wasn’t terribly filling. Also unfortunately, the dish itself was only marginally more so. I raided the kitchen cabinets, the contents of which are community property around here. I found a package of some kind of spirulina/protein powder that you mix with milk for a "meal." I was actually considering checking the fridge for milk, when my eyes alit on this warning: For best results, milk should be very cold. In other words, Tastes like toxic sludge. In still other words, For best results, just kill yourself instead. I could have sworn the cabinet contained taco shells at some point, and I was about to tear into a couple of those, but it turned out that although I accurately remembered the presence of a brightly colored “TACO” label, it was on an envelope that also bore the word “Seasoning.” And all that did was make me sneeze. Somebody who didn’t know me better might say I tumbled from the top of Maslow’s pyramid to the bottom in a matter of hours. I reject that interpretation. It’s only true if I would have given up my self-actualizing career in order to fulfill my base physiological needs. And I don’t think foraging through my coworkers’ desk drawers looking for snacks constitutes acting on such a decision. Maybe if they’d been sitting at their desks at the time. And if I’d actually found something and made off with it. And if I’d snarled at its rightful owner in the process. And if that person were my boss. But not to worry, because at least one of those conditions was never met. I’m stopping for snacks on the way home, though. Today’s best search phrase: “How to fold money blind.” It’s tricky. Money can sense blindness, you know, and one of those presidents is liable to nip off a fingertip. Especially that pissy old prick Jackson. Godspeed. What? I didn’t say that. That was the person reading this to you. Don’t blame me, dude. posted by M. Giant 6:47 PM 0 comments 0 Comments:
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