Somewhere Else

I don't think I can be considered a "worker" anymore. All morning I have been dreaming of being somewhere else. Primarily, I wish to be nesting on my couch in my stale pajama pants, under the quilt with the smelling-like-corn-chips wiener dog, occasionally slipping in and out of consciousness only to eat a few more crackers and enjoy midday reruns of Hogan's Heroes and The Cosby Show. The day is obviously not passing in such a fashion, as I am currently at my desk and embroiled in an internal struggle as to what cheese-flavored snack to enjoy next. Cheetos? Doritos? Cheese Nips? Cheddar and Herb Kettle Chips? God, I implore you! Make it easy on me and remove my options!

So, my new soft-in-the-middle job has made me question my work ethic once again. I just wonder where my motivation lies. I've flirted with motivation and dedication and drive and obligation and focus before. Really, I have. The last time, for instance, was when I was working on a political campaign this past fall. I could work a 15 hour day, mostly standing up, with a to-go cup of coffee that became fused to my left hand, and feel like I never ran out of energy. Now that I am back in the cubicled womb of white noise and close quarters, I become extremely impatient when having to wait two or three minutes for my "scheduled" break, i.e. my 15 minute federally mandated cigarette/bathroom break (which I observe religiously). Today, I was suiting up for said break and realized that I left my little yellow box of 20 friends at home on the kitchen counter. I don't need to tell you about the miniature panic that followed. This meant that I had to find a store within walking distance to buy some more. After I found one, I bought some. Then I walked back to my usual spot (outside the building where I work) to stave off the demon inside. It's a funny spot to visit each day as it is adjacent to a high school athletic field, which fills me with residual dread but I find it very entertaining to watch the Juicy-butt suited Olympic hopefuls while I suck on a cigarette and try to prevent my pants from cutting off the circulation in my legs. So, I am standing there by the building, enjoying my cigarette and employing my thousand-yard stare to quell interactions with passersby, when a person encroaches my Safety Circle.

Person: Hey. You got a cigarette for me?

Me: Nope, sorry.

Person: Smoke somewhere else then. Jeeeeeez!

Smoke somewhere else? In order that I don't tempt you, miscellaneous person? I don't get it. You know, sometimes when I have these nonsensical and random interactions with people, I almost wonder if the questions are tricks and if I don't answer correctly that I will become the victim of a "What's the Frequency, Kenneth?" style beatdown.

But, back to work. This led me to think about some things I would like to tell other people to do "somewhere else" in order to avoid tempting me into participation. These are actually activities I have been involuntarily drawn into mutual enjoyment with others while at work:

-clipping fingernails

-clipping toenails (picking at feet, generally)

-gargling in the work kitchen

-butt scratching while ascending a staircase (readjusting, generally)

-bonafide nosepicking

-"working" things out of lungs and/or throats

-eating sardines when others are present (never acceptable)

-pants-zipping and belt-buckling on the way out of the bathroom

-a litany of pooping and/or farting combinations in many areas, even including the bathroom

I think the lesson here is that there really are people everywhere, and sometimes there just isn't a "somewhere else" to do something. But there usually is. Really. Later today, I'm going to try smoking while standing on the other side of the building.

even the word "spreadsheet" is questionable, in my opinion

I do believe that if I left this world right now, due to whatever chance circumstance, that the place I would end up (regardless of context or construct) would be either lined, stuffed, fueled and/or warmed by the burning of, or made from bricks of reams and reams of paper with incorrectly formatted spreadsheets printed on them. What You See Is What You Get, people. It's been that way for years. Print Preview!

There were two bags of Dangerously Cheesy Cheetos delivered this morning. I feel slightly better about things. However, the thought is still present that I may, in fact, be working with two large child characters from any combination of Stephen King novels. Diabolically manipulative children. Time for lunch!

Our motto is "Dangerously Cheesy"

I just hit a new high. If you happened to be one of my coworkers, you just enjoyed the opportunity to see me actually empty the last of this week's Dangerously Cheesy bag of Cheetos directly into my head, via my gaping mouth and tipped-back head, all while sitting at my desk and reading an article about Pope Benedict the MXVIIXMIVC. As I wiped off the dusty orange Dangerously Cheesy moustache that I had just made, I was reminded that I intend (well, I've been intending since Tuesday, since the big announcement) to title a new entry "Il Papa, Don't Preach." I don't want to write it now, but I want everyone to know the title. That's just how I am. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't.

Sabbatical, or Toilus Interruptus

Whew! I haven't had much time for a-bloggin' because I've been busy a-workin'. Here's something I've been thinking about while doing all of this aforementioned "work": I wonder if one can fire a coworker in the same way that one can make a citizen's arrest.

While I dream of the possibilities, I will revel in my rekindled love of Cheetos. They are free here. There's always another new bag each Monday. I haven't eaten this many Cheetos since I was in fifth grade and discovered Mountain Dew, laserdisc players, Saturday Night Live, Cheetos, and Vicki Johnson all in the span of one short and passionate fall. I have to remind myself of my motiviation, right? Right. Vive le weekend!