Technically, it’s not stealing, and honestly, no one gives a shit, but
all the food lying around this workplace makes me feel petty and
pilfering.

I was thinking about the HUGE upsurge in my beverage intake
(especially coffee and soda). I was thinking about it while walking
through the machinations of my morning toilette, most especially.

I had effectively stopped suckling at the caffeine teat or had at
least tapered to civilized not addict proportions. A leisurely Sunday
morning cup with the beau, a warm pot of tea as I wrote and read the
morning news. Well under my extra large Dunkin’ Donuts jones and
afternoon Diet Coke pounding during my past employment.

But, now, I fear a rebound addiction of epic proportions, all because
my calm appreciation of caffeine and moderate behavior is smacking
right hard up against the heady excitement of FREE STUFF.

As in all things, I blame my mother.

Pat’s post-Depression childhood and packrat ways taught me the
appreciation of giveaways. (She was scrupulously honest and would
never steal. And god knows she was ever vigilant and suspicious of
any concept of "free lunch," as am I, knowing full well quid pro quo
payback can be a bitch. But, a great bargain or a enticing freebie,
she would queue right up.)

I swear to god, I can recall as a kid seeing her slip an extra muffin
from a brunch buffet into her purse on the way out.

If she worked in this office, her timidness would keep her from
unbridled pocket stuffing. But, in her memory, as I am sure Pat would
have done, I brought a Snapple and snack-sized bag of peanuts home to
M.

By the way, having snacks and beverages around fucks with my circadian
rhythm of working and slacking. No 7th-inning stretch afternoon
breaks to ponder the candy machine or walk to Dunkies.

I’ll have to find another pause that refreshes.

I’m drinking <a href=3D"snapple.com">Snapple.</a> Snapple, made from
the best ingredients on earth, or whatever the fuck their slogan is.

And, it’s free. Gratis. No charge.

I keep wandering into the kitchen and discovering new things for free.
I feel like a rogue, a pirate, pillaging at will. But, I’m not.=20
It’s all cool.

Snapple.

By the way, in the lovely wicker basket the volume of maxi pads has
been diminishing. I haven’t used a maxi pad, free or otherwise, for a
bazillion years. I wonder is it use because it’s there, kind of like
the candy jar?

Apart from marvelling at the emergency preparedness kit, my occupying
thought is the job itself and how I’m having deja vu all over again,
all over the place.

I’m trying very hard to remember that most of the political thickets
arose in the final years/months of my past employment, but at the
outset it was all fucking hunky dory.

I’m also trying to remind myself that my continuum has been
increasingly less responsibility for "the man" and greater
responsibility for myself. To that end, this job is far less rigorous
than my last one, and until they threw mountainous piles of
responsibility on me, that last job was less rigourous than the one
previous.

Basically, I believe I can answer phones, schedule appointments and
make travel arrangements. (The fact that I believe anyone with
opposable thumbs can do those things as well is immaterial.) Ergo,
quirks and weird vibes of deja vu aside, I should be able to enjoy the
free coffee and soda for awhile. (Free Diet Dr. Pepper,
motherfuckers.)

I had been thinking what the other perq was about which I meant to write.

If all worked (and I’m still not planning to actually access this web
page, so I won’t know), below there is a low quality photo of what is
in my lower desk drawer. I got here and thought maybe I was sitting
at a special fire marshal/safety girl desk.

It’s an emergency preparedness kit and flashlight.

I realized that there is an emergency kit and flashlight in EVERY desk
drawer. What makes this job different from all previous desks or
benches I have parked my ass behind? The earth might start shaking.

I did figure out why California has earthquakes (other than plate
tectonics). It’s because they are huge pussies about weather. The
other day the local news forecast had a teaser and then went on to
report how bad the weekend would be all over the Bay Area. The
crisis? Temperatures would only be in the 70s, and there might be fog
over the ocean.

Pussies.

I’m reticent about posting about a job. Duh, wonder why.

But, nonetheless, I’m compulsive. Today, I made it here with a bit
more sleep. I also took three wrong turns within the building before
locating my desk. (Yesterday, I was mostly directed, so I managed the
interior, but I did miss the turn for the private road on which the
building is located.)

I suspect there will be many wrong turns before I’m through.

My heart attack last night was when my web stats showed two different
searches for my full name. One resolved to a Boston ISP, so that’s
probably not someone here. The other to the man with whom I’m living.
He likes to check on me.

I’m wicked a-scared that my secret life of weblogging will be
uncovered, and all of the kids here will know what a dork I am. My
writing is already tempered by the Cali mellow and distance from my
New England tormentors, though.

(I checked the employee manual and the Internet use policies are
apparently under construction.)

I’m trying to remember the other dork-a-licious topics to post about
in the perquisite vein, but I guess not enough free coffee.=20
(Actually, I could have partaken in free coffee at my last gig, but
the kitchen area was gross, and I would have had to then take shared
responsibility in bumming money from the director and purchasing the
coffee. Too much effort for generally poorly made java.)

By the way, here’s one little workplace universal — even if there is
a space age, sleek, silver dishwasher at arm’s reach, there will still
be dishes in the sink of any office kitchen area.

If I were any more tired right now, Michael Schiavo could be counseling M. on how to pull the plug.

I’m persistently vegetative.

So, well before midnight, I will likely be a-snooze in my bed, drooling on the pillow, grunting and snoring and looking so much like death that M. will have to question the sanity of ever having invited me out here. Or, maybe it will touch him deeply, as I sleep baby-like, but without spit up or defecation (I hope).

I’m here, and I’m new, and I’m tired and can’t remember which room
holds the precious store of coffee.

It’s a strange new place indeed, so different from last gig that
remarking upon it would probably end up encyclopedic. It’s so hushed
and clean and efficient, I find it surreal.

When I began at my last job, there was a long, yellow sheet of legal
pad paper apologizing that not everything had been set up for my
arrival and no one was there to greet me. For the first couple of
days, I struggled to get a telephone and network access for the clunky
beige desktop and a key to my office. I scrounged for supplies within
the drawers of the uncleaned office I inherited.

Today, there was an empty cubicle space (I know not an office, as
before, but it’s glass and wood and oriented very privately) waiting
for me. There was no computer or telephone yet, but there were
apologies and within an hour, IT had set up both. They both look to
be straight out of the box. (The keyboard even still has those
plastic sheets that say "remove before use.")

Best of all, sitting on top of the desk was a box full of brand new
office supplies, all for me. New pens, new scissors, new tape and
dispenser.

Nothing at my last job was new. I bought new stuff for other people,
but the administrative code was essentially "make do."

Everything is also state of the art, amazingly so. Sad to say, given
my gadget-whore core, the telephone is intimidating as all hell. It’s
VOIP and somehow magically works with MS Outlook. For the first time
ever, I am a-scared and a-quiver in the face of technology.

Of course, I am literally in the middle of Silicon Valley, using the
resources of one of the areas founding farthers, so I shouldn’t be
amazed. But, fucking hell, the philanthropy side of non-profit rocks
the house compared to the grant-begging side.

They tell me that there are "cafes" in each wing and floor with water,
a selection of teas and oatmeal and coffee brewed and stocked by
magical fairies. In the main kitchen (which is fucking huge and
gourmet caliber, seriously, you could bake a pie there), there’s
scheduled breakfast foods — bagels alternating with muffins per the
day of the week.

Three days of the week, they serve lunch for everyone, gratis. In the
summers, one of those lunches is an outdoor barbecue.

So far, the wildest perquisite of all — Each and every bathroom has
an assortment of feminine hygiene products, stylishly available in a
wicker basket.

This shit is fucked up.

Fucking, man, up at 6 a.m. (Although, I guess in Boston right now it’s still a leisurely 9 a.m.) Barely slept last night in nervous anticipation of the first day at work.

Just about 11 months to the day of sitting in a psychologist’s office lightly chatting about Lenny Bruce and bad office politics. Almost a full year of my own timetable.

The worst part of the first day at a new place is all of the necessary new person questions, not least of which is “Where’s the bathroom?”

I hope the other kids like me and someone let’s me eat at their table in the cafeteria.

Looks like from reading Boston comedy buddy Paul’s weblog, I ain’t the only liberal exercising some constitutional rights. Well, at least that’s what they say, “it’s about the constitution.”

I would be curious to hear what kind of jokes Paul is gonna end up writing after blasting up some targets. I tried one that got a laugh from M., but I think no one else in the room last night. Basically, it went something like this, and needs more punch and less self-indulgent, unexplained point of view:

“I celebrated Memorial Day and soldiers giving up their lives for the country by shooting up some targets of people. The thing about Libertarian, pro-gun people is they talk about security and protection. OK, one gun provides security, but if you have have enough semi-automatic weapons to outfit five shooters and that’s only half your collection, hmmm, I’m not sure I feel any safer.”

Needs work.

Meanwhile, the clock keeps ticking down to my starting work. It has been damn fucking hard to get any sympathy what with a recession, war, living in an area that went completely bust after booming, for my wanting slovenly and idle.

Instead, M.’s been telling all his friends that I got a great job and that I’ve started making inroads to perform, and everyone is all impressed and shit. It’s always a weird dynamic when you’re whining and moaning and someone’s asking you if you feel proud and happy. Sort of dampens your pity party.

And, I got to say that after performing with another Cambridge transplant last night, who also came out here to be with a significant other and who doesn’t seem to be having a ton of fun, I got nothing to complain about, really. I still want to complain, however, such is my nature.

Objectively, though, I have met a couple of comics here who I can call by name and with whom I can chat. Done a few shows, gotten told about a few more and swapped a couple of email addys. I even did a pretty decent Saturday night show last night, and a couple of people from M.’s old apartment showed up.

(Last night I even had my first awkward comedy hug moment, of which I had gathered quite a few back in my East Coast ‘hood. The dance is that I grew up in the apotheosis of a non-hugging atmosphere. Pat had a warm and firm handshake. But in comedy there’s the Hollywood meet and greet “hug hug kiss kiss” dynamic. It took me a while to smoothly hug someone hello, and I never got to the point where I wouldn’t have a taped voice running in the skull pan “OK, relax, now hug them back…” If you can imagine, here in the peace, love and granola Bay Area, it’s all heightened, so people I have known even less are all up in the hug arena. I’m working on not flinching and acting like a ‘tard.)

And, I found a job with good benefits and some name brand recognition.

And, every now and then I realize that I’m living with a man with whom I’m involved in a relation. Me, man, relatively pain-free. How bizarre is that?

Today is the last Friday of the rest of my life. Well, I hope not the rest of my life, but it is of my pleasurably not employed life.

Monday morning, I again will toil behind the grind wheel of working for the man. Well, not exactly the man, since I’ll be working for a woman. And, since it’s going to be at a rather large philanthropic organization, “the man” could be defined as the “down-trodden.”

But, goddamnit, I’m going back to work. Kill me, but not with a hand gun, because I now am officially hand-gun adverse.

M., sweet patootie that he is, has planned a celebratory cookout for Sunday evening to fete my employment. Won’t he be surprised when I curl into a fetal ball and weep inconsolably in the corner?

I have thoroughly enjoyed my time off, and my heart is heavy with the thought of returning to the workforce. Sure, the people with whom I’ll work seem nice, the benefits are kickass, the salary adequate and the work possibly interesting, but nothing compares to sitting on your ass free to be yourself 24/7.

For those of you counting, it’s been 11 months, almost to the day, since I had my psych appointment to discuss the violence issues I never possessed. My how time flies when you spend it hiring lawyers, writing and traveling, whilst feeling not in the least psychotic.

I think spending the weekend with guns really underscored for me the absolutely, appalling, but goddamnitedly ironically funny, accusation of my violence. Yeah, right after I get beaten down, I’ll raise that old fist of rage.