Tag Archives: life

The Great Macaroni and Cheese Adventure

9 Oct

Okay listen.  I need your help.

I am trying desperately to find the most fantastic recipe for macaroni and cheese possible.

Possible.  Do you understand?

I keep trying recipe after recipe and each casserole dish is a big batch of sorrow.  I’m starting to doubt my ability as a homemaker and as an American.  After all, vats of bubbling cheese and white, nutritionless pasta is what we rock.  And we rock it hard.   So where has my patriotism gone?

How can I make this happen?  I keep scouring the Internet for recipes and trying them.  I take them from sites with really fantastic food porn.

You know what I’m talking about – food porn.  Blown up images of things melting or bubbling or flaking just perfectly.   It’s sexy.  It’s almost raunchy.  And you’re huddled in a quiet corner as you fantasize about the possibilities that a cinnamon the size of your head could bring to your life.  Or if stuffing a cookie with your favorite candy bar really does make it taste twice as good.

Mmmm Food Porn.

Why should you help me find the most amazing macaroni and cheese recipe ever? You should do it because a truly good macaroni and cheese is a kind of delicious that everyone should share.  You should do it because I’ll blog about the one that truly rocks my world and I’ll take fantastic food porn pictures of it and link to your site or your cause or a picture of your dog – whatever you have that may make use of linking.

You should do it because I’ll give you a $25 Visa Gift Card.

No really – I will.  That’s how badly I want a good mac and cheese recipe.  And you know I’m good for my word.  Remember my grand TheJackieBlog t-shirt raffle?  Those folks got their shirts.  Here’s proof.   Doesn’t the idea of $25 American dollars make you want to scour the Internet and your recipe books for the best of the best? 

So give me everything you’ve got – macaroni tips, macaroni recipes, macaroni sites – I’ll take it all.  And I’ll labor over every word and ingredient until I am a Macaroni and Cheese Master.  I’ll cook it all  up like a mad scientist and when I’m done I’ll share with everyone the best recipe of all and I’ll give a $25 Visa Gift Card to the one who submitted the winning recipe.  Tell your friends. 

But only the ones who can cook. ♣

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A Change of Plans

8 Oct

You know those days where you bank on being able to get home and tend to the things you couldn’t tend to before work?  You don’t intend to go about the day in your current state;  you just simply didn’t have a choice.

Yesterday was that day for me.

I woke up with little sleep and with nothing done.  I was without  a professional-looking outfit, without a blog post, without a shower, and without underwear.   I was really looking forward to getting home around 5 and remedying all of those things.  I was going to do laundry, catch up on some emails and editing, and take a nice hot shower.

But then Dave got in an accident.

It’s okay – don’t freak out.  He’s totally alive and in one piece.  He was riding bike to his show last night and some jerkface turned against traffic when Dave had the right of way, essentially cutting Dave off.  He cut the wheel, braked hard, and flew over the handlebars to slide on his stomach across the pavement for a display even Olympic judges would have rated favorably.

It’s interesting to know how I react during these situations.  I got the phone call that he’d been in an accident, hung up, and began to talk myself through what to do.  Okay, here we go.  Get the keys, get your purse, go go go.  Okay.  Okay.  Let’s go.  You can do this…

Apparently I’m a self-coacher.  Which is fine.   Unexpected, but fine.  I kept talking to myself until I came to the fork in the road where Dave was standing, bloodied and bruised.   I checked him out, asked all the important questions, and we both came to the conclusion that he was a big bloody, scratched up mess but he was okay.  And since he had to be on stage in an hour, I called the Stage Manager and asked her to be ready to clean and bandage him instead of going to the hospital.

Listen, ‘the show must go on’ isn’t just a joke.

Most of his cleaning was done in the backstage restroom with the help of the crew.  I decided to stay and watch the show again in case anything happened and so that we could head to the ER right after the show ended to get him checked out.

Of course, I was still in my unwashed, un-underweared state from the AM, and was really banking on the ability to come back home right after work and fix my grossness.  Instead I ended up in the front row between two elderly men drenched in Old Spice, crossing my legs under my dress carefully so that no one on the side balconies would have a heart attack.  After the show, we made out way to the ER, where I sat until almost 1 in the morning, festering in my own disgustingness.

We came home (all was relatively well with the Davester), slept immediately, and woke up late today when it occurred to me that not only am I still without underwear (or any clean laundry for that matter), but I still haven’t taken a shower and still owe another blog post before I can do anything.

So now we’re caught up on the post – time to do some serious body/laundry/house cleaning.  So long as no one else gets in an accident, I should be able to get quite a bit done today.

Note to self: don’t let Dave go anywhere until I have a shower and underwear. ♣

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Day Jackie Vs. Night Jackie

7 Oct

I set myself up for total failure today.  I really did.

I often have these moments of struggle between Day Jackie and Night Jackie.  Day Jackie has a full time job, pays bills, and generally attempts to be a respectable person, while Night Jackie is crazy and doesn’t know what the point is of Day Jackie if she can’t enjoy herself along the way.

I spend any time I have between Day and Night Jackie wondering what I’m doing with my life.

Like today, for example.  When I went to be at 3am the night before without a blog written or a pair of clean underwear today.

What’s truly magical about Night Jackie is that she doesnt’ grasp the magnitude of her absurdism  because she never has to reap the consequence of it.  Consequences are for Day Jackie.    And the reality of the situation is that sometimes Night Jackie just doesn’t feel like doing laundry.   She minimalizes its importance with relation to the grand scheme of life, assuming that things will just work themselves out the next morning.

Leaving it for Day Jackie.

Of course, Day Jackie can’t fix all the problems that are left for her.  What does one do without a blog post or clean underwear and only an hour between wake and work to fix them both? 

The answer, unfortunately, is to wear a dress, which allows the existence of a slip, which is a lot like underwear, so long as your hemline is long enough and you keep your legs crossed.   Of course, the dress is not really work-appropriate because of it’s questionable neckline, but it can be toned down with a drab, gray cardigan.

Cardigans cover a multitude of sins.

No clothes/no underwear crisis solved.   And you know what? Day Jackie also reckoned her best bet was to piggyback on that tidbit to crank out the post that Night Jackie ignored.  Both problems have been sufficiently, though temporarily, addressed.  Day Jackie should probably go immediately home right after work to get some laundry done before Night Jackie shows up.

After all, this was her last clean dress.  ♣

 

In celebration of today’s theme, here’s a Pixar short for your entertainment:

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Of Death and News Feeds

6 Oct

I have to find a way to deal with the shocking news of death in this crazy age of instant Interwebz magic.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been scrolling down a news feed and been smacked across the side of the head with the news that someone famous has died.   I know there’s really no good way to break the news of someone we all kind of feel linked to passing away, but at the same time it’s a little jarring to read “RIP (insert someone famous here), you will be missed” sandwiched between an update about a friend having to use the bathroom and another friend wanting a hoagie for dinner.

Steve Jobs died yesterday, in case you weren’t compulsively checking Twitter.

BAM.  Just like that, right?  Internet knowledge in your face.

It always sends me on a nice long Google/Wikipedia trail where I begin to soak up every little bit of knowledge I can about that person.  Did you know that Steve Jobs dropped out of college after one semester?  He later returned to audit a class.   It was Calligraphy.

There are all sorts of witty and wonderful things to say here.  Something in the fact that he returned to take a beautiful handwriting course when his contributions to the creation of the modern PC have led to oodles of kids not knowing how to write because they only know how to type.  Or even something about how this whole post is about being told abruptly of folks’ deaths via computer and was spawned by stumbling upon the passing of the man who “pioneered the concept of the Personal Computer” (CNN).

But all those witty wonderful things are eluding me.

I remember finding out that Heath Ledger died because a friend sent me a text.   I don’t know why it affected me so much.  There’s something incredibly heartbreaking to me about losing a young actor who showed so much promise.  I think it had a lot to do with the delivery as well.  After all, when I check a phone text I expect chit chat or quick questions.  I don’t expect “Hey, Heath Ledger died”.

When I was teaching at a performing arts camp a few summers go and we were all cut off from the use of our cell phones, there was a vicious rumor that Michael Jackson had died.  Of course, no one believed it.   Everyone thought it was someone taking advantage of the fact that we were without our technological verification devices.   Eventually on a session break, I was wandering around the area and saw a TV featuring the story.  That was my true confirmation.

That’s how I’m used to getting my news of high-profile deaths: from a big, talking box.  I’m used to a brightly colored ticker on the bottom of the screen wrapping it all up and pictures of the person’s life flashing in the background.  I’m used to a news anchor perfectly mastering the mix of sincerity and excitement to be on the breaking news of the day as they relay to me that someone I don’t know at all but feel strangely connected to has finally left this world.

Of course those who came before me were used to seeing it in headlines or hearing it on the radio, and try as I might I can’t imagine trying to cope with graduating from that to a talking box.

I wonder what the next step is.  Maybe we’ll all just get real time  news feeds tied to our brains.  We can have a little wire and receptor that shoots out of our ear.  You know, like Batty from Fern Gully?  

That way I can just get a robot voice in my head saying “(insert famous, shocking name here) has died” while I’m brushing my teeth.  Or maybe we can opt for the heart-attack free way of going about it – the voice can say “Good morning (insert your name here)!  I have some bad news today.  Please make your way to a seated position, hold yourself, and say ‘okay’ when you are ready to receive this information.”

Until then I’ll just have to hold myself and stay seated any time I check my news feed.  

You never know when a death will be sandwiched between dinner plans and bathroom tales. ♣

Ladies and Gentlemen: Batty.

 

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The Domestic Twitter War

5 Oct

In a startling act of technological prowess, David has joined Twitter.

I’m not really sure why.  He didn’t even tell me about it.  He just, you know, tweeted one day to no one but himself and then casually texted me later to ask me if I saw it.

Of course I didn’t see it; I didn’t know he was on Twitter.

Nonetheless, I was excited to see him join another network I’m on (even getting him to maintain his musician page on Facebook is quite a daunting task) and was hoping it would be something he could get into.  But once I arrived, I saw his profile picture was an egg (the default for a Twitter newb) and that he had tweeted once…and only once…for two weeks. 

Today he excitedly asked me if I saw his Tweet again.  Of course, he didn’t really call it a tweet.  He called it a twitter.   And as much as I’d love to mock that somehow, I adore David and am choosing to take the stance that it’s all a bunch of made up mumbo jumbo anyway so who cares if he uses the term we’ve all agreed to use?

I still snickered at him.

Today’s tweet was something about how he was going to reverse his memory loss by devouring our almost-dead rosemary bush.

Some of you may remember that quite a few Lollipop Tuesdays ago, I attempted to fashion an herb garden in my dining room window.  I ended up sending Dave for the trappings I needed and in the excitement of the herbal additions in the house, he bought an enormous rosemary bush.

It was completely useless for the purposes of my Tuesday experiment, but hey: the man loves his rosemary.

Anyway they’re all dead now.  The whole lot of them.  By week one my mint dried up and died so completely that it simply fell to the carpet in defeat. By week 1.5, the parsley had turned completely brown and tired of life.  Week two brought no firm hope for the cilantro, which reached and reached for sunlight and happiness but simply couldn’t seem to get enough.  The basil clings for life still, in spite of his dead friends hanging by sad, dark threads beside him.

The rosemary bush, 5 times the size of the other herbs and not even a victim of my experiment, was dead by the second day.  Cause: overzealous felines.

So today David was sitting around, apparently worrying over his failing memory, looked up ways to fix it, and resolved to devour the plant.  Or what the cats had left behind of it anyway.  And using the new form of social media at his fingertips, tweeted this desire.

To me: his only follower.

I find this oddly charming.  He has created an account, isn’t following anyone, and hasn’t told anyone he’s on so no one is following him.  For now it’s like he’s shouting out to me from a corner of the Internet that anyone can hear but only I know to listen to.   I informed him of this today and he is highly amused by the idea of tweeting only to me. 

I suspect he’ll start to use it for fun household games, like telling me the trash needs to be taken out or asking me what’s for dinner each night.  Of course, he could do the same thing via text but it’s slightly more harassing and hilarious when it’s high profile.

I have a variety of retaliations in store for such an occurrence.  I’m not above creating another Twitter account just for nagging. This could be the beginning of a beautiful and entertaining war.  

I’ll be taking Twitter name suggestions all day. ♣    

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Lab Rats for Light Bulbs

4 Oct

Sure, I could have picked a cute little rat. There are plenty of them. But these wrinkles and red eyes were just irresistible. Look at that nekkid pink back. Like an old man's buttocks.

Hey, I’m feeling bolder and slightly more enlightened.  It must be Tuesday.

Happy Lollipop Tuesday folks.

I seem to have some fresh faces (where do you all keep coming from!?) so allow me to direct you to the top of the page where there’s a link labeled “What’s Lollipop Tuesday?”  That should help soothe your pounding cerebrum.  In the meantime, I will regale everyone else with my venture into a white, unmarked van.

Okay, it wasn’t really a van, and it certainly wasn’t unmarked, but I’ve always felt just as creepy about it nonetheless.

You see, there’s this Research-Mobile thing that is sometimes parked in random places around the city that has Carnegie Mellon University splattered all over the sides of it.  It’s a lot like an RV but instead of a family, it’s carrying students.  And instead of a home inside, there’s a sort of research lab.  And instead of traversing the country it really just goes somewhere, squats, and returns to the University.   So I guess it isn’t really anything like an RV except that it looks like one.  It has none of the traditionally assumed properties and thus cannot be defined by the Robin Williams movie title.

I’m just full of all sorts of falsehoods today.

Anyway I never knew any of those things because I’m a big ol’ chicken.   Once in a while I would see the mobile parked around town and I’d wonder what it was all about but I never had the nerve to approach it.  To be frank, it scared the bejeezus out of me.  You can’t see in side, you don’t know what will happen to you once you get in there, and you have no idea what the people will be like who are undoubtedly in their participating in something or other.

It sounded like torture, to be honest.

But let’s get real here: I have twelve Lollipop Tuesdays to go until I can be done forever.  So when a stranger asked me this weekend if I’d hop on her research RV and get experimented on, I was totally up for it.

As it turns out, the research-mobile wasn’t so scary.  I would still argue that windows might help it not seem so creepy.  And there’s a certain sense of claustrophobia that takes over about halfway through the testing, but aside from that it wasn’t too bad.  They happened to be doing a research on light bulbs.  They were attempting to assess how educated the typical consumer is on light bulb choices and the impact of certain bulbs on the environment.  They factored in price, color, lumens, wattage… I know more about light bulb terminology right now than I ever wanted to.  We answered some questions on the computer, we stared at some light bulbs, and we went back out into the great wide open.

And as a fun bonus, we were all reimbursed with light bulbs.  Not lame light bulbs, but super awesome, coily, long-lasting daylight-recreating light bulbs.  

When I was wrapping up the computer testing portion inside I was given a big blank box of text and asked if I had any feedback for their study.  I began to type away, thinking nothing of leaving a few thoughts behind about the process.  A few moments later, one of the dudes running the gig came over and made a comment about how I “had a lot of feedback”.   I thought that would be a good thing seeing as how these folks are probably going into research for the rest of their lives and might want to consider a few fine details of their setup.  But then I looked at the screen and saw a huge block of text and realized that helpful or not, I sure was writing a lot.  Just like the dude said.

It appears writing a post a day has its side effects. ♣

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How Do You Feel About Blogger Chain Awards?

3 Oct

I’ve been trying to ignore this for quite some time, but now it’s getting awkward.

It’s time for me to address the infamous “Versatile Blogger Award”.

I’ve been avoiding this moment mostly because I’ve been trying to figure out how I feel about this whole “give each other awards all willy-nilly”.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m totally flattered to have any award whatsoever.  Someone could send me an envelope in the mail with nothing but glitter inside and a note that says “I think you’re special” and I’d still be 100% grateful.  Mostly because it’s an excuse to use my super awesome new Dyson vacuum, but also because it’s totally awesome for anyone to bestow upon anyone else a token of their adoration no matter how small.

Or how few regulations there are on it.

But at the same time, I’m a woman who appreciates process and efficiency.   And it seems a little, I don’t know – excessive? Let’s discuss the ground rules here, as determined by whomever decided to fashion this super groovy square of pixels and see if it caught on like chain mail.  Which, it did.  Well done, creator of the Versatile Blogger Award.

So here’s the image: 

How it works (for the non-blog readers, as I’m sure 90% of my blogging fan base have received this wildfire award at some point, given the rate at which it spreads) is that someone “nominates” someone else and notifies them on their blog.  In order for that person to accept it, they have to list 7 things about themselves, and then pass it on to 15 other bloggers.

Did you hear that? 15 other bloggers.

I don’t even read 15 blogs.  I don’t.  I have a few well-managed subscriptions and that’s where it ends.  I couldn’t possibly recommend 15 blogs because of all the pressure.  Plus, since the passing on of this award is purely subjective, I could nominate a bunch of crap blogs and it wouldn’t matter if they were crap because they’ll just write 7 things about themselves, and pass on the poo pile to 15 other people.  And I get the idea that it’s supposed to drive traffic for people, but I don’t think that folks are really going to click on 15 links.  They might click on one or two if that’s all that were suggested, but 15 just makes them skip over all of them.

Do you see what kind of monster we’ve created here?

The beauty in this award is that you can’t actually “accept” it unless you pass it along.  And you kind of feel like a big fat jerk not at least mentioning that you’ve received it, even if you don’t really want to take part in passing along a jpg file that has absolutely no regulations whatsoever on the kind of person/writing/website that it ends up on.

I’m not exactly offering up the idea of a committee or voting system – those awards exist and I assume the folks who get them are bathing in blogger fame and fortune.  Or maybe they’re just stoked to put another picture in their sidebar along their Versatile Blogger Award.  I don’t know. 

Anyway, I’ve been blessed by this lovely and apparently controversial-for-me award by no less than four different bloggers.  Four.  Think about that.  Isn’t that crazy?  Shouldn’t there be some system that we can avoid the same person being given more than one of these?  I suppose that system would be to display it on my site, but then I’d be buckling under the pressure, and that’s exactly how chain mail lives on, my friends.

Think about it.

Nonetheless, I’m grateful for this jpg the way I’d be grateful for an envelope of glitter: 100%.  And because these super fantastic folks took time out of their day to bestow it upon me (and in some cases share a few words of kindness about my corner of the Internet), I’d be pleased as pie if you’d pay them a visit.  Because I’m not going to pass this award on to 15 people, most of whom will be willy-nilly. But I can recommend the below blogs because I subscribe to at least one of them. 

I won’t tell you which one.  It will be part of the fun.

So a very sincere thanks to those below and to everyone else who is reading: consider giving these folks some clicky love and figuring out which one/s I subscribe to.

I should also note that I was given the Liebster Award, which looks like this: 

by Phrogmom.  I appreciate the idea of this award a little more (I appreciate being given them both the same – I’m referring to appreciating the existence of the award more) because it has rules.   It’s intended to be given to someone with less than 200 followers but whom the giver believes should have more.  It also only asks that you pass it along to 5 people, which is far more reasonable that 15.

Phrogmom stated when she gave this to me that she didn’t know if I met the requirements, and to be honest I don’t and so I don’t think I’m allowed to legally accept it.  I don’t know how that works.  Can we call Liebster?  

Regardless, I’m flattered as butterfly wings to have so much love and adoration sprinkled down upon this humble blog.  And though my desire for process and efficiency is conflicting with my gratefulness, I sure am eager to hear what other bloggers (or even non-bloggers) think about the idea of chain mail awards.

I’m not going to take a poll this time.  You’ve been great about the polls and I treasure that and promise not to trample my power there.  But if you have a thought, please do share it.  I adore your thoughts oh-so-very-much.

Don’t worry; I won’t let all this fame and glory go to my head and ignore your comments.

I’m all ears.  Sock it to me. ♣

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100.

2 Oct

I’m going to do it.

I’m going to do it because I have so very few chances to bank on knowing what a post will be about before I write it.  And only a few times in this year of daily blogging have I allowed myself the liberty of posting on the fact that I’m almost done posting. I’ve done a 1/4, 1/3, 1/2, and a 2/3 celebration, which was just last month.  In fact, since it seems so recent ago I was going to forgo a celebratory pause post until I realized this is my last real milestone before the end.

And it doesn’t hurt to post it on Sunday, the day the least amount of people read my blog.  I hope that means you’re all in church.

All.  Day.  Long.

It’s my 3/4 celebration, ya’ll and I’m pretty stoked.  I can’t believe I’ve written 274 posts.  Well, this will make 275.  275 POSTS.  That’s insanity.  I can’t believe I’ve written about two hundred and seventy-five different things.

Actually if you think about it, I only ever really write about office oddities, games, stupid people, and food.  And occasionally I try new things.  That’s pretty much it.  5 categories, 275 rants.  Man, you guys must really wish I’d change it up. 

I have lots of options at this point.   I could list my favorite posts so far (overdone), I could list my least favorite posts so far (absolutely mortifying), or I could just spare you all the recap.  Besides, a lot of you are reading every day.

That blows my mind.  I have pretty consistent numbers.  Aside from my super fantastic subscribers who let me barrage their inbox each and every day with the furies of my mind, I also have a fantastic number of folks who drop in to catch up directly.  And they keep coming back every day.

Except the Lord’s Day.

I know I  mention a lot how my readers are my favorite part of this crazy project, but you really are and I can’t say it enough.  Your comments make me think, crack me up, and lead me to awesome little spots on the Internet that help me learn more.   I’m really still baffled that my reader base has grown so much since the beginning of this all and even if it continues to soar, I will still be grateful for every single one of you who read, comment, or even just drop in on occasion.

I have 100 posts to go before I shut this engine down.  

…or will I?

Thanks for coming along for the ride.  Here’s to the final one hundred. ♣

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Just Doing My Part for Society

1 Oct

I got someone ejected from the mouth of Starbucks yesterday.

You know, typically I’m not the kind of person to go all “hey get that dirty little hooligan out of this establishment”, but when I pay 4 dollars for a cup of magic sauce, I don’t really expect to be solicited to while I’m in the place that serves it to me.  

I assume that part of my 4 dollars is for hooligan insurance.

As I buckled under the weight of my heavy eyelids yesterday and wandered over to my local branch of caffeine distribution, I noticed a gentleman positioned right at the doorway, handing out flyers as if they were coupon codes for the coffee shop.   I think one of his key mistakes was that he verbally announced the nature of the flyer while handing it to me and my colleague.  Being all “here’s a discount flyer for 50% hot dogs across the street” is totally fine.  In fact, it’s good information and I appreciate it even if I don’t take the flyer.  But unfortunately this guy wasn’t hocking discount hot dogs. 

He was hocking lingerie and sex toys.  And he said so.

When I’m in an afternoon schlump and headed for an injection of magic and sunshine, I’m not looking for sex toys.  In fact, I think it’s safe to say I’m never really looking for sex toys – much less discount sex toys – and much, much less a very shady, somewhat greasy gentleman handing me a flyer and asking me if I want some.

So I politely turned down his tasteful collage of imagery and yellow and orange highlighter and went inside to giggle.  But my going in must have prompted the business-savvy in him because he came in right behind me with his plastic bag of good wishes and proceeded to approach every female in the joint and hand them his sex toy flyer.

I’ll admit, I stood in line and watched it to my great amusement for quite some time.  Especially when he approached really uptight-looking girls and said out loud the words “sex toys”.  It was brilliant theater.  But the poor little baristas were so busy trying to juice everyone up for the afternoon that they didn’t even notice him milling about.

When it was my turn to order, it took me a fair amount of convincing to get the barista to look across the shop and see the man clearly propositioning women of every shape and size.  I was glad that when he finally took a gander, it was time perfectly for an outstretched hand, a flyer, and a look of extreme discomfort.   Shocked that I wasn’t pulling his leg (apparently there’s something about my delivery that makes someone suspicious of my truthiness), he tasked the nearest female with going after the hooligan to give him a piece of her mind.

He was promptly ousted.

It turns out hooligan insurance is included with my cup of magic after all. ♣

My story would be better if the hooligan were dressed as a mascot. I've chosen a panda and recreated it here for your amusement. Because I know my Microsoft Paint reconstructions keep you coming back for more. You're oh-so-welcome.

 

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I’m the Smeagol of the Office

30 Sep

I’ve been the subject of an office scandal for quite some time and I just now figured out what it was.

Office people are strange indeed and the floor I work on is no exception.  It’s almost all women, all huddled in the same little cubicle farm, supporting the same overlapping group of people.

And my office is down the hall.

I’m immediately made the Smeagol of the group just as a matter of geographical fact.  

I moved into my full-time position at work from a temporary assignment.  It was a strange and mysterious ride that wasn’t really ever talked about.  In fact, I wasn’t really every sure what my job was, what was expected of me, or if there was a desire by the higher-ups to keep me beasting about.  

I don’t think beasting is a word.  But I’m sure your brain has come up with something for it already so let’s just keep whatever you’ve got.

Anyway the point is that I was never really introduced, never shown around, and never really explained things in a very thorough manner.  The nature of my job lies in its constant uncertainty.  It’s an interesting and confidence-shaking place to be.  And unfortunately because I am in a support role, there comes a time in my life when I have to do things like place kitchen orders.

There’s an executive kitchen on our floor that’s stocked with coffee, tea, chips, pretzels, and sodas of all kinds.  Sometimes there will be leftovers in there from high-level meetings and the underlings are allowed to spread it amongst themselves.

Amongst is probably also not a word, but it should be.

Once in a long while, the kitchen supplies need restocked.  Having never been walked through the process and wary to ask for assistance because I’m the Smeagol of the floor, I went about doing so with a lone sheet of paper, completed by the person formerly in my role and filed for safekeeping.  There were handy little notes on there about how much of something we should typically have at one time and a firm reminder to inventory.  At the time we were pretty much out of everything so I just decided to order ten cases of every kind of drink to get us back on par.

A week later, the kitchen was still bare.  So I asked the most approachable of the cubicle creatures how I could follow up on the order since I only had a fax number and wasn’t about to scrawl an anonymous note with an angry face asking where my stuff is like a terrorist and fax it over.

She had a funny smirk on her face and said everything was already delivered.  I told her it was my first time ordering so I just wanted to make sure everything was okay and everyone was happy.  As if laughing at me, she assured me everyone was happy and escorted me over to a door, behind which she swore all the items were stashed.

I was confused – mostly because I’d always seen the delivery stocked immediately into the kitchen.  And also because I was fairly certain the “closet” she was referring to was the custodian’s storage room.

But she was done with the conversation so I went back to my cave down the hall, wondering what I did incorrectly.  She casually mentioned that I seemed to order a lot of Pepsi, which I thought strange because I pretty much ordered the same amount of everything.  My mind spun a web of theories, most of which revolved around a secret email everyone was copied on except me regarding someone wanting a certain kind of juice or fruit snack that I failed to get their input on.

Office creatures are menial, but deadly serious folk.

The other day I wandered over to the kitchen to carry out one of the more degrading aspects of my job by heating up my boss’s frozen dinner and I noticed the kitchen closet was stocked with a rather large quantity of soda.  I heard some sort of buzz that the person before me over-ordered Diet Coke and let it go.

But last night while I was milling about my apartment, it hit me: I ordered a massive amount of soda.

You see, the ordering form indicates that all orders are carried out in ‘cases’.   Since I have a small apartment and a rather lax vocabulary, I call 12-pack and 24-packs of soda ‘ cases’.  Since I used to stock third shift in warehouse clubs, I should have known that 12 and 24 do not warrant a case by any means.  Rather, a case is an entire case of 12-pack and 24-packs.

And I had ordered ten cases of every kind of soda.

The kitchen order is in the janitor’s closet because there simply isn’t any room for it anywhere else.  In fact, it’s a wonder they didn’t have to throw everything out of the office supply closet just to make room for the now-enormous selection of Diet Coke we now have. 

I didn’t get the memo about the girl prior ordering a bunch of Diet Coke until after I sent the fax.

I tested my theory like I test most theories – by simply stating it casually in conversation and reading how the other person reacts.  And sure enough when I made an off-the-cuff remark about realizing I ordered entire cases of soda instead of just packs of soda, my fears were confirmed as she nodded and said something like “drink up!”

I’m sure now that there is a secret email that I’m not copied on.  It’s a picture of everyone laughing and partying under a waterfall of soda while they guffaw over my ignorance. ♣

Because I know how much you love my art.

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