(no subject)
One 11.2 oz. bag of foodstuffs: $2.32. 1.2 million FCC lactase units: $6.59. Estimated waking hours of lost productivity: 96. Pigging out on the milk-encrusted doughnut holes that have been taunting you for months, even knowing that you'll be regretting it for weeks: priceless. There are some things money can't buy. For everything else, there're weak-willed people like me to buy them. :-3
So yeah, this explains my current melancholy rather nicely (Jarian standard response to lactose poisoning). I just couldn't stand looking at them one more day. Just sitting there, laughing at me. They didn't taste as good as I remembered. Nothing in the world tastes so good as the memory of the taste of all the things that you have access to, but can't/mayn't have. Grilled cheese sandwiches; the singles best food I've ever had. I know that's not true; I don't even like cheese, but they taste so much better, so incredibly tempting, now that I know I can't have them. :-3
My hair got in my eyes one too many times, so I bought hair barrettes a day or two ago. I had to go through two stored before I found some pretty ones I liked. Apparently barrettes aren't a very popular hair item, judging by the (utter lack of) variety and quantity of them I found even in Walmart's giant hair accessory section. I'm now the proud owner of 15 or so different barrettes, most of which came from a 10-pack with beautiful different colors. So I popped out the bright green ones, put them in my hair (none too symmetrically--I hope I get better at that soon or my hair gets long enough for a (decent) pony tail), and went to work. The plan both worked and didn't work: it worked in that it kept my hair out of my eyes. It didn't work, because my hair is very curly, and so it just bunched up in big, puffy locks to either side of the barrettes (I think I'm putting them in wrong), effectively cutting off my peripheral vision in a big mane of tawny hair, which only adds to my feeling that I've been looking a lot like a lion of late.
Another thing I didn't take into account (but I would have done and intend to continue to do the same thing knowing what I do now): apparently having bright green barrettes in your hair makes you "girly". I was quite dumbfounded by this fact, even speechless for a bit. But before it really sank in or I hit "speechless", the first person (besides my coworkers) to comment on them was someone I'd gone to school with. He walks through the door, sees me, stops dead and says, quote, "What the heck, Jarr? Why do you got girl things in your hair?" I'm not sure what I answered; I think I was too busy laughing to answer at all. :-3
In the battle between man and machine, I've decided that machine has won. I mean, it's painfully obvious, especially to someone like me who works with computers (and looses vital information at their whim) on a regular basis, but I guess the programmer within me still like to pretend that man has some small sliver of control. But last night it occurred to me, as I was trying to read the paper (it was a very slow night, I think fall schedule is finally here), that no, man has no say at all. If my till beeps jump, I jump. If it beeps at all, I jump, put down my paper, and go over to see what it wants. My till gives the word, and I spend the net two hours off the clock rooting through garbage cans with Tim, trying to find a slip the register didn't print. It can, with a flash of its beady little LCD eyes, destroy my paycheck by arbitrarily withholding the sacred beep, and in the next breath beep at me incessantly for hours on end when it knows as well as I there isn't a thing I can do about it (except go insane, which I do). It even knows how to change pitch and trade off with the other till so that I can't zone it out! One time it randomly decided to reload the DCR. That cost us $25.00, because it decided to give out free gas while it was doing that. My till has but to flash the code, and I spend the next 20 minutes out in the rain trying to find the right combination of keys to get through the security locks (a different combination for each of our 14 pumps--the keys aren't labeled, of course) to reset the pumps and hope to death that doing so fixes the display problem. The register holds my timesheet in its sneaky little brain, and if it decided to change the number, there isn't a single thing I can do about it. It could even categorically decline my numbers, which would cost me my job without even a chance to explain myself. My entire life revolves around the fickle inclinations of a fickle little cash register that can only hold its breath for half an hour in a power outage. And when it does run out of breath, or decides to lock up in the safe drop screen (again), then we're (forcefully) closed for the day. Not that we get to go home--the register controls clocking out.
So yeah, this explains my current melancholy rather nicely (Jarian standard response to lactose poisoning). I just couldn't stand looking at them one more day. Just sitting there, laughing at me. They didn't taste as good as I remembered. Nothing in the world tastes so good as the memory of the taste of all the things that you have access to, but can't/mayn't have. Grilled cheese sandwiches; the singles best food I've ever had. I know that's not true; I don't even like cheese, but they taste so much better, so incredibly tempting, now that I know I can't have them. :-3
My hair got in my eyes one too many times, so I bought hair barrettes a day or two ago. I had to go through two stored before I found some pretty ones I liked. Apparently barrettes aren't a very popular hair item, judging by the (utter lack of) variety and quantity of them I found even in Walmart's giant hair accessory section. I'm now the proud owner of 15 or so different barrettes, most of which came from a 10-pack with beautiful different colors. So I popped out the bright green ones, put them in my hair (none too symmetrically--I hope I get better at that soon or my hair gets long enough for a (decent) pony tail), and went to work. The plan both worked and didn't work: it worked in that it kept my hair out of my eyes. It didn't work, because my hair is very curly, and so it just bunched up in big, puffy locks to either side of the barrettes (I think I'm putting them in wrong), effectively cutting off my peripheral vision in a big mane of tawny hair, which only adds to my feeling that I've been looking a lot like a lion of late.
Another thing I didn't take into account (but I would have done and intend to continue to do the same thing knowing what I do now): apparently having bright green barrettes in your hair makes you "girly". I was quite dumbfounded by this fact, even speechless for a bit. But before it really sank in or I hit "speechless", the first person (besides my coworkers) to comment on them was someone I'd gone to school with. He walks through the door, sees me, stops dead and says, quote, "What the heck, Jarr? Why do you got girl things in your hair?" I'm not sure what I answered; I think I was too busy laughing to answer at all. :-3
In the battle between man and machine, I've decided that machine has won. I mean, it's painfully obvious, especially to someone like me who works with computers (and looses vital information at their whim) on a regular basis, but I guess the programmer within me still like to pretend that man has some small sliver of control. But last night it occurred to me, as I was trying to read the paper (it was a very slow night, I think fall schedule is finally here), that no, man has no say at all. If my till beeps jump, I jump. If it beeps at all, I jump, put down my paper, and go over to see what it wants. My till gives the word, and I spend the net two hours off the clock rooting through garbage cans with Tim, trying to find a slip the register didn't print. It can, with a flash of its beady little LCD eyes, destroy my paycheck by arbitrarily withholding the sacred beep, and in the next breath beep at me incessantly for hours on end when it knows as well as I there isn't a thing I can do about it (except go insane, which I do). It even knows how to change pitch and trade off with the other till so that I can't zone it out! One time it randomly decided to reload the DCR. That cost us $25.00, because it decided to give out free gas while it was doing that. My till has but to flash the code, and I spend the next 20 minutes out in the rain trying to find the right combination of keys to get through the security locks (a different combination for each of our 14 pumps--the keys aren't labeled, of course) to reset the pumps and hope to death that doing so fixes the display problem. The register holds my timesheet in its sneaky little brain, and if it decided to change the number, there isn't a single thing I can do about it. It could even categorically decline my numbers, which would cost me my job without even a chance to explain myself. My entire life revolves around the fickle inclinations of a fickle little cash register that can only hold its breath for half an hour in a power outage. And when it does run out of breath, or decides to lock up in the safe drop screen (again), then we're (forcefully) closed for the day. Not that we get to go home--the register controls clocking out.