Fear the Crab

Yep. Looks like ocean.

Continued ~

Today I thought I had made up a new word. The word I had in mind was “snorke,” which is a smash-up of “snort” and “choke.” The reason I came up with this word is because someone’s blog post made me choke on my own spit with laughter. So I figured, what better way to describe the near passing-out from obstructed humor than with the birth of a new word?

It’s onomatopeic! It sounds like “snorkel” and immediately makes me think of the cartoon series. As someone else also indicated, it sounds like it’s one flipper short of a
full set, and that perfectly describes the feeling of laughing with fluid in the lungs.

And it’s easy to do all kinds of English grammar-fication with it!
“I snorked.”
“Bob’s snorke made me call 911 before I realized he was watching Magnum PI.”
Probably the best thing I have ever come up with in my history of coming up with stuff…

Continued ~

Friday (29 May) was the last full day of Las Vegas vacationing for us. Naturally, when accompanied by people who are not as interested in gambling, the only other activities available after the sightseeing road trips are exhibits and shopping.

We met up with The James as a chance to catch up on old times, and he didn’t seem to mind tagging along. It had been over a year since I last saw him, so it was nice to get together.

Continued ~

Thursday (28 May) was another drive to another canyon, but this time the distance was much shorter. We went to Red Rock Canyon, ~18 miles west of Las Vegas, where the rocks are, naturally, quite red.

Chuckwalla

Continued ~

We arrived in Las Vegas on Tuesday evening (26 May), late enough to do little but eat and shower. Since we were staying at the Main Street Station, we ate at the Triple 7 restaurant. Tried the pale ale, and it wasn’t too bad, except I’m not a big fan of fruity flavors in my beer. I don’t recall what kind of flavor it was supposed to be, as I didn’t spend all my time studying the menu.

The reason for the quick bite and bath was because the next day was our journey to the Grand Canyon. By car. That meant waking early enough to grab some breakfast (at the Garden Court buffet) and wash up before the big road trip. We started driving at around 0700, I think.

Continued ~

This morning at The Office, I went to the cafeteria to get breakfast.  It’s an average routine for when I neglect to bring oatmeal or my squishy bowl set, and I had a few dollars squirreled away for such occasions.

Upon receipt of my breakfast special (eggs, bacon, potatoes), I noticed that only one register was in operation, and it was at the espresso bar.  Fair enough, it’s happened before, and all it means is that I will be waiting behind people eager for their fix.

The order in front of me got mixed up in the space between the clerk and the customer, as a mocha shake was created with regular chocolate instead of white as was ordered.  Why the customer elected not to observe the preparation of her drink could be attributed to a lack of attention or caring, but she chose the moment the clerk handed her the shake to question its contents.

All that did was create a slight delay as the clerk had to make the correct mocha shake.  I figured, it’s no big deal for me; I’m only at work.  Yet in the midst of this new preparatory adventure, the clerk asked if anyone in line wanted the mistaken order.

Heck, I’ll take it. Ordinarily I’m a regular coffee guy; black, and nothing funny in it. I don’t mind an occasional espresso, and I do prefer a mocha to a caffe latte (except I’ve grown to hate when baristas feels they have to get all fancy and add stupid cinnamon/chocolate art designs in the foam). I told the clerk to pass it my way, and he seemed grateful enough to charge me half-off. Score!  Bonus!

Smug with my new and cheaply-acquired drink, I made the journey back to The Office. I took a sip with each 5th step, not out of any adherence to a set cadence, but just because that’s how long it took to savor and swallow.

I opened the door to the main hallway with my near-frozen fingers (it’s hard to hold onto a cold shake). I keyed in my security code to The Office door. I turned the handle to open the door, so that I could sit at my desk, eat my breakfast special of eggs, bacon and potatoes, and drink my mocha shake with regular chocolate instead of white.

And as the handle turned enough to open the door, I dropped the fucking shake.

I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned this, but I have been using a titanium spork at work to assist in the consumption of comestibles. I first heard about this thing via ThinkGeek and felt that it would serve me well in The Office environment. In a stroke of pure genius and total lack of work on my part, I managed to secure myself a titanium spork as a gift (along with a squishy bowl set, which I also use at The Office).

I use the spork practically every day. I pack a home lunch and drop that utility-ous utensil in the box, give it a quick spritz of dish soap to rinse off after lunch, and bring it home for a proper scrub at night. It’s very handy.

Sometimes I don’t bring lunch from home. I still bring my lunch box, because it has my squishy bowls and I use them for my breakfast of championship oatmeal. Those days that I don’t bring home lunch, I generally try to find something to eat from places around The Office, and in a passing fit of environmentalism, I opt out of the plastic forks in favor of my metallic culinary weapon.

Such was the case yesterday. Since I had to go to the bank, I stopped by a plate lunch place (located in the Biomedical Building… relevant?) and secured me some herb-roasted chicken. As mentioned, I took no utensils and resolved to use the spork. I’m doing my part to reduce my carbon footprint! Despite the fact that the lunch came in a styrofoam container and that my feet are kinda small.

Fast forward past a fantastic serving of fowl, and the rest of the day is frapturously dull. So dull that I can make up words like frapturous, because it rhymes with craptastic.

I go home, open up my lunch box so that I can wash my bits, and I realize that I FUCKING LEFT THE SPORK IN THE PLATE LUNCH CONTAINER. The container that I threw out in the large garbage cans outside The Office building, that I now distinctly remember having no other such garbage so as to land directly at the bottom. The bottom of which undoubtedly has filled up since I dumped my container after lunch and only realized the spork was missing after dinner.

I figure, well hey, it’s only nine (8.99) dollars, plus shipping and handling. Yeah, it was a gift, but shift happens sometimes. On the other hand, it was 9 freakin’ dollars (plus s&h) and it was a freakin’ gift! Shift!

As if I didn’t have anything better to do, I stayed up late fretting about it.

This early morning I arrive at work, and it’s raining. I have my raincoat and lunchbox (sans spork) and I’m splashing through puddles as I make my way from the parking structure to The Office. I arrive at the building and stop at the garbage can. The garbage can that I threw away my food in. The garbage can that has been filled with other food containers since I left yesterday.

It’s still dark, as it is not yet time for the sun to wake. And it’s raining. Hard. I peek into the can (it has no lid) and see that yes, it is now halfway full. As I suspected, yes, there are food containers, likely filled with leftovers that invariably attract my #1 nemesis (see tags for a clue). And yes, I can see the corner of the container that I threw out from where I stand, pale white styrofoam gleaming in the baleful orange glow of outdoor hallway lights.

Huh. You know, I could reach in there and get it. The can, can be considered halfway empty, right? And the spork was a gift, right? So what if there are dozens of other plates and containers in the way. So what if I have to navigate past all that rotten food and who-knows-what in open bags. So what if, assuming I do pull out the container I used, there is another “occupant” inside when I open it.

I stand there, over the garbage can, pondering my decision. I stand there in my black raincoat, large hood over my head, backpack on my shoulders, lunch box in my hand. I stand there in the dark, rain and wind falling around me, utterly alone since no one with any semblance of sensibility is up at this forsaken hour.

“Lo, how the mighty have fallen,” a witness might think. “Lo, how the dying throes of a weakened economy force State employees to forage for food.” Well, fuck it. I dropped my lunch box to the ground, and dove into that can with as much courage as I could muster.

Apparently it wasn’t much courage, because I ended up just sticking one sleeve-rolled-up arm in there and tugged at the barest piece of styrofoam real estate with my thumb and forefinger. My other fingers were trying as hard as possible to stay away from the germ-ridden filth. My chin was parked on my shoulder blade in an attempt to avoid possible backsplash from.. well, anything.

But it was okay! And my hand was already making the OK sign! I pulled out that lunch container, gave it a quick shake to dislodge any residue, and popped the lid open before my rational mind could interrupt.

Voila! Spork! Disregarding any previous attempts to remain sanitized, I snatched my precious out from the grasp of day-old rice and chicken fat, and dumped the container back into the can. I went inside The Office to the break room sink and gave it a quick rubbing down with dish soap and water, then I microwaved a mug of water and dropped the business end of the spork into it, where it has been soaking since I started this post.

I think maybe it’s okay now. It’s time for oatmeal, and I’m hungry.

People from The Office were preparing to leave for a farewell lunch, to send off a co-worker leaving for another job. We had planned out who will be driving, and who will be riding in whose cars; I was assigned to one vehicle with 4 other people, plus the driver.

The parking lot was a 5 minute walk from the building, cutting across a large grass lawn.  A recent heat wave turned the grass dry and brittle, and each step kicked up enough dust to stick to the skin.  I dreaded what the interior of the car would feel like.

We reached the car, and it was a small jeep or SUV of sorts.  Suddenly I realized that the entire group would not be able to fit inside the car, since at most three could sit in the back whilst one occupied the passenger side.  We stood around in the parking lot searching for a possible solution that still would allow for some level of comfort during the ride, but came up with nothing.

I gallantly offered to stay behind.  It would be all right, since I could just get some lunch elsewhere.  My co-workers would just have to explain the situation to everybody else, and I was sure we would all agree that it was an unfortunate situation that could not be helped.  I left the parking lot and headed back to The Office.

The building I returned to was a restaurant, some place that I apparently have always worked at and could always get a bite to eat.  This wasn’t a bad thing, since I expected I could still get some lunch.  However, before entering I encountered Maile’s dental hygiene classmates, who informed me that the entire restaurant was closed for a convention/party being held for DH credits.

I did not begin to question how I would get back to work if the building was closed off, since I was more concerned with getting some food in my belly.  I was becoming increasingly perturbed by this series of bad luck.  Unfortunately, the situation would never be resolved, nor would my now-irritated state of mind be calmed, thanks to the untimely interruption of alarm clocks.

* * *

From the MetaFilter: Cake Wrecks.  Visit and laugh. And for the love of all things fun and gooey, do not attempt to make/buy these at home.  Certainly do not try these with me; I will not be as amused as I am with that blog.

* * *

EDIT:  This same day, we went to an Italian restaurant for a good-bye dinner for one of my co-workers, precisely for the reasons outlined in the dream.  The car I rode in was, oddly enough, the last to leave The Office and arrive at the restaurant.  What’s more, we forgot one person who was supposed to ride with us; the poor guy had to drive himself over.

He wasn’t that mad, though, since we all laughed at the driver, who through some Wonderland math skills thought that he only had to transport 3 people instead of the 4 that were on his list.  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the riders called in sick and didn’t attend, and somehow that knowledge caused the driver to perform a mental miscalculation and ignore the rest of the names.

Similar things have happened to me.

Inevitably in the US, and I’m sure it occurs with as much frequency in other countries, people want to know where you work. What do you do, how much do you get paid? Oh wow that’s very interesting.

Less well-discussed is whether or not you enjoy your work. The common thread is that people in the US aren’t supposed to enjoy work. We’re not supposed to like what we do, it can’t be fun. And if, by some sick twist of fate it does happen to be fun, we’re not supposed to admit it.

Even LESS well-discussed is what your workplace looks like. Which is what I’m going to do now.

My desk

This is my little hidey-hole. It’s tucked away in the corner of a large communal work area, a place where consultants and students sit and work behind me and to my left. Note the door to the right; its placement is not accidental.

My backpack and sunglasses rest on a portable 3-drawer locking file cabinet, but I don’t typically put things of importance inside because it’s really light and someone could walk out of the office with it. Now it just serves as a shelf. My lunchbox sits on the floor because there’s no room on the shelf. You can’t see my umbrella, though.

On the desk are my tools of the trade: headphones, coffee mug, notepads, and photographic reminder of why I work. Dual monitors for a Windows machine, keyboard and optical mouse, and telephone are used less-often (I’m a State worker, after all). A mirror, to see who is behind me.

I have two calendars, one given by the university, another purchased personally. Mine has a wolf on it. The shelf above me holds meaningless materials, spare parts, and school newspapers full of coupons.

Back to the door. It leads to the snack room, refrigerator, and coffee machine.

The snack room

The Silicon Valley poster on the door is horribly out of the date.  Someone made little post-it stickers with “GONE” written on them, and now it is a daily puzzle-solving activity to try and find out which businesses are no longer in business.

You would think that with the amount of traffic in and out of the snack area, or community printer, that I would be constantly bothered. However, note that the door is open, it is continually left open, and if you reference its position relative to my workstation, you will notice that it helps to cover my back and secrete me away from the hustle and bustle. Yea, often the secretaries forget I’m at work and don’t bring me my paychecks.

Despite the non-usage of my file cabinet, I am not without storage. To my left, past an empty station, is my overhead compartment.

Overhead storage

A closed version is to the left; it’s not mine. The computers below aren’t mine, either, because their main purpose is to collect dust. Truly an aspiration for all State employees.

Inside my storage bin are books I no longer read, a box of envelopes I hardly need, a multitude of pens, rulers, and office supplies I never use, and some business cards I don’t hand out. I also have a few paper plates for the occasional snack, and a glass plate for re-usability. Whatever else is in there, I probably put in a couple of years ago and never touched again.

Back to work, I guess.

The Kimberly has made me aware of what could possibly be the happiest bentos to ever grace the enamels of hungry happy hippos. These perfect-able comestibles look like they’d enjoy nothing more than to slide down the saliva-soaked joyride into your stomach, fill you with such elation that you will regurgitate this love for everyone to share. Yes, you will puke, it’s so feckin’ cute.

SQUEEE!

Some of those delightful delights invite you… nay, entice you to savor their sumptuous flavor, with promises of doing the Digestion Dance in your innards. It’s a fucking overload of cute. You will no doubt shit happy.

Kyaraben, or character bento, is a rather established hobby. They make tools to help you shape food to Hello Kitty size, and by all indications it is not limited to the cat. There’s a book that documents the designs that go into this crazy craze. Any character, specific or generic, is up for grabs and down for stuffing in this decorative food festivity.