2002-07-17 - 2:45 p.m.
So, Lunch. For some itís the first real meal of the day, not counting the grazing amongst the cubes and departments. Or the pastry at Starbucks. For some itís a happy break, where one can socialize with employees and bond over shared stories and experiences. For others it a chance to have the office free to themselves, if only for an hour and get some work done, free from interruptions. And sometimes itís a combination of the above.
Where is this going?
I have no idea. I just go back from lunch. I had a sandwich. With pasta salad and a fruit punch. Sadly, it was the highlight of my day. The only time thus far where I was comfortable and relaxed. There was too much mayonnaise on the pasta salad, but it was still good. The afternoon looks to be shaping up to be a dreary catching up from the morning. We had a customer visit, and the salesman that was hosting is one who drives me crazy. There is no link between what he is told and what he says. I am continually amazed at the distortion and out right lies that come out of that mouth. A simple statement of ďThis is BlueĒ becomes a 10 minute speech about how itís red. Or as my grandfather used to say, Ask him the time and he tells you how to build a clock. Along with a history of the timepiece in modern times and how it relates to him. Everything is about him. He likes to lurk around waiting to pounce on some unsuspecting victim, paralyzing them near a printer or coffee machine with his tales of adventure and mayhem that are anything but. The question, How was your weekend has little to nothing to do with how YOU spent your weekend, but only gives him a springboard into how HE spent his weekend.
Iím sorry, those of you who stuck around for some Andy Rooney witticism about lunch time and offices. There will be no ďWhatís the deal with Fruit PunchĒ or ďWhy is it that Iím willing to spend 10 dollars for a sandwich when I could make one at home for 2Ē. Itís just not going to happen. But luckily a diary reader can just click away to more greener pasters.
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