When I was younger, saying, “Oh, he’s an old friend of mine,” didn’t have the same negative connotation that it does now.
The first time I broke my arm, Josh (who pushed me) visited me in the hospital a day or so after I was admitted. He was very shy, very apologetic, and hid behind his mother most of the time. I think it was she that baked the cookies for me that I seem to remember receiving, though don’t remember eating. It doesn’t seem like something that I would have been allowed to have by either my mom or the doctor… a full plate of cookies all to myself? I think not. Most likely, I ate one while they were there and never saw the rest of them.
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This is not the point.
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Besides the cookies, the Caddels (because that’s what they were called) also brought me a game to play while I convalesced. It wasn’t electronic (that not being important at the time), and only required one hand to use effectively; which, even at seven or eight I found profoundly considerate. It was a Pac-Man game, who’s object was basically the same as the simple cup-n-ball games, in that you try and scoop a ball on a string into a cup. This game was almost the same thing except the cup was an open-mouthed Pac-Man and the ball was… well it was still a ball, but you were to agree that it was actually a “pellet” like from the video game. Instead of the pellet being on a string, though, the whole thing was encased in a clear plastic sphere with the Pac-Man suspended in the center. By means of a handle, you would manipulate the sphere around, causing the pellet to spin within it; and, try to time everything exactly, so that when gravity eventually took over, the pellet would drop into the waiting mouth of Pac-Man.I loved this game.
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It made a particular sound as the ball would spin around inside the sphere that must have driven my parents crazy… not to mention the loud clack-clacking of hard plastic on plastic every time I missed the mouth. Sometimes I would turn the sphere in small tight circles just to make the pellet whir around the sphere as fast as possible, with no attention paid to the Pac-Man in the middle, producing a constant zimming sound that I can still hear.
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I remember that game very well, and probably still have it in a box somewhere, buried along with my Star Wars figures and several small rocks that for me held a value I would no longer understand.
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What I don’t remember, is ever actually getting the pellet into the mouth. Not that I didn’t. I am sure (or at least assume I am sure) I did hundreds of times; it’s rather that the most important part to my memory was the playing of the game, as opposed to the winning of it.
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This was the point.
Working in San Dimas and driving a black truck with no air conditioning is clearly penance for some past sin. I don’t recall ever doing anything that deserved this level of suffering though, so perhaps it is Fate’s way of punishing me in advance. Whatever it is, I am going to make damned-well-sure that I enjoy it.
A lot.
Those of you that say you like the heat: you don’t. You think you do; but, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. You like the idea of heat. You like the heat from your air conditioned car to the air conditioned restaurant. You like the heat warming you up after spending too much time in the freezer section of the supermarket before you get back to your climate-controlled homes.
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You do not, however, enjoy the heat of driving to and from work in 95 degree palpable atmosphere for an hour at a time. You do not like the heat that your car seems to produce on it’s own, without prompting, that makes it consistently and unperturbedly hotter than the outside air, no matter how many windows and vents you open.
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You do not like the heat. Trust me.
Internet access was out most of the day, and now I have to run to a telecon with Thailand, so I will just leave you with this to think about (related to my last post, in fact):
Why do they use one-way screws in bathrooms? Like I’m going to walk out of a restaurant carrying a wall from my stall?
Thank you and good night…
My 7-Up can has a full-size picture *ba-dum-dum-CHING* of Frodo from The Lord of the Rings on it. He’s “brandishing” (holding akwardly) a sword and looking at me like he wants to say something, but will throw-up if he opens his mouth.
I am drinking out of Frodo.
In fact, my lips cover the word “Frodo” as if I was kissing the name of my secret crush on my Peachee Folder.
I am drinking out of Frodo. This is not, at least for me, good marketing.
Things that I do or do not do in work restrooms, first in a series:
.: I do not, under any circumstances, want to be seen leaving a stall. I am not sure why. Nevertheless, my need to not be seen leaving a stall is so great, that I will wait patiently for other restroom occupants to either enter their own stalls, or leave completely. Being caught exiting a stall when a new player enters the field would most likely result in immediate cardiac arrest.
subset A Should I leave my stall, and, while washing my hands, hear that another restroom occupant is leaving his stall, I must wash up quickly and efficiently, and exit the restroom as fast as possible. Otherwise, the stall-exiter will see me; and, being generally aware of his aural surrounding surmise that I was previously in a stall as well. Not acceptable.
.: Thou shalt not talk to me. Don’t…. just don’t. Don’t sidle up to the next urinal and ask me about the game, don’t stand waiting behind me talking about that one project. Do NOT finish your business and wait by the sinks talking at me from across the restroom. You are shouting in a sacred place. You will be smote.
.: Thou shalt not here me whilst occupying a stall. The quiet inward prayers for mercy, the grunting, the panting, the exclamations of surprise and delight… what the hell are you doing in there, and why do you think no one can hear you?! Stop it!
You have been warned
Hello everyone –While we shouldn’t have to send these messages out – we continue to have a problem with the disappearance of food items that our employees have stored in the break-room refrigerators – so please consider this as a reminder.
Our refrigerators are in the break-room for everyone’s use. Employees should be able to store lunches, and miscellaneous food items, without having to worry that when lunch or break time arrives, their food will be gone! Please have some consideration for your co-workers! If you see something in one of our refrigerators that interests you – BUT YOU DID NOT BRING IT IN – then it doesn’t belong to you and you may not take it!!
This is true even if there is no one’s name on the bag or container.
And, for those of you who do regularly store food in our refrigerators – LABEL YOUR ITEMS WITH YOUR NAME! This should help eliminate any confusion as to the owner of the food.
Your cooperation is appreciated and expected.
Thank you,
>Office AdministratorPosted in uncategorized Comments Off on
There’s a manager here at work that has an odd way of addressing people. Typically speaking, if you were to come in to my office with the express purpose of speaking to me, you would say something along the lines of, “Hi Dave,” or “Excuse me, Dave. Gotta minute?”
This manager, though, takes a different path, and says (as walking in to my office), “Oh… hello Dave,” as if he was really on his way to somewhere else, is surprised to find me here, and really has to search through his mind to find something to talk about. But he’s not any of those things, you see, because he gets over his feigned startling and quickly launches into his purpose.
“Oh… hello Dave. I need you to give me the new specs for the…”
I got caught sliding down the hand-rail this morning. It’s no small surprise as I am guaranteed to do so a minimum of five times a day. A kind of plain-looking, slightly-stooped, older man caught me as I slid down to the first landing as he came up from the first floor to the same, hugging the rail and out of sight from above. I let out a little “whoo!” as I slid off the end, having caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye.
For some reason, “whoo!” seemed appropriate.
To my surprise, he didn’t give me a tsk-tsk look, but instead a slightly melancholy smile; as if he wished he’d thought of that… or that he had thought of it, but was now too old or fragile to attempt it. My sheepish grin seemed to be enough to validate what I had been doing, and we both continued on with our respective journeys as if nothing had happened.
