This morning no one from my "team" is here for a variety of reasons,
so it’s blissfully peaceful. I’m using the time to organize and think
about organizing everything so it seeps into my little comprehending
gray matter.

Since I was feeling so productive and humming droning bee-ish, aka
busy, I figured I’d skip the usual weblog bullshit blather.

But then, right there in the kitchen cabinets as I was snagging some
more free morning joe, there was something post-worthy staring me in
the face. Among the ample free snacking opportunities here at the
work farm — FREE BEEF JERKY.

Jerky, motherfuckers. While you tool in your workhouses (especially
you all "backeast" in the gloom and torment of New England), I could
be munching on dried bits of animal hide (or whatever it is).

I’ve always wanted to taste the jerky, but never wanted to spend any
of my hard-earned cash on it, lest it prove as disgusting as it looks.
Now I have opportunity. I just have to figure a time and place.

Food, snacks, beverages, yada yada yada.

Finished lunch and went into the kitchenette (different from the main
lunchroom from which the food came). After throwing away the last
soggy leaves of lettuce clinging to the plate into the trash, I
realized each of these little rooms has a garbage disposal in the
sink.

Not just a garbage disposal, but <a
href=3D"kitchenaid.com">Kitchenaid.</a> Man, that ain’t Home Depot DIY.
Kitchenaid is top of the line, Cadillac disposing, and that don’t
come cheap.

If anyone from the new employer should stumble across this bullshit,
they are likely to only shrug, scratch their heads and pronounce me
"Queen of the Dorks."

Dork? Because yet again, I must comment on free food. (You would
think from reading the posts these weeks I just left a workhouse where
orphans subsisted on gruel.)

On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays lunch is served in the cafeteria.

(Here’s something I never saw in the east — imagine a basic
corporate-like lunchroom, OK, they have them in Boston. But, there
are NO cash registers. No signs at all of life transacted in the
commerce sphere.)

At my old place of employ, there was "Baked Potato Bar," where you
could decorate a spud however you liked. It was sold by weight, and
taters being weighty tubers, I could easily smack down a 5-spot or
more.

Today, I am eating "Baked Potato Bar" in a parallel universe. Beyond
the main event of a hearty baked potato with stewed tomatoes and
sausage and a little cheese, my plate overflows. There is green salad
with romaine, not iceberg, and your basic salad veggies. In addition,
there’s freshly steamed asparagus with a light vinagrette.

A varietable feast of vegetables, and it doesn’t end there.

There is also the ubiquitous for Northern Cali, sourdough bread.=20
(Honestly, while sourdough bread is edible, I really can’t fathom it’s
cache. It is everywhere here, however, and Pepperidge Farm is no
where to be found. I do suffer my little hardships.)

Finally, I decided I needed to toss in a little sweetness to the mix.=20
Remembering that California has a whole lot of sunshine and
agriculture, for today there are lusciously red strawberries, neat
slices of perfectly ripe mango and a small corner of lemon square,
just because it was there.

And, this plate that would certainly have exceeded $5 and may have hit
double digits in my old world cost me what?

Nada. Bubkis. No thin dimes at all.

Stranger still, the HR woman who welcomed me on Monday spotted and
greeted me. As I commented on the unusual sight of free food, she
explained that among the reasons for its existence was to lessen the
environmental impact of the assembled staff driving out for lunch.

Cynically, I had been assuming free lunch only equated with keeping
you at your desk toiling. But, the gas emissions thing makes sense if
you factor in that I’m sitting in a room dedicated to good works.=20
Among their missions, and one for which they are willing to write
really big checks, is to help solve pollution.

Best perq to date, the motherfuckers actually paid me in this my first week=
..

At my last gig, through a combination of administrative incompetence
and the fact that I was the administrator to be taking over HR
paperwork, it was almost a full month until I got paid (and they were
on a weekly schedule).

This time around, there are only two pay days a month, and they STILL
managed to squeak me in…

Rock on rich people and your wealthy philanthropic organizations. Rock on.

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).