Azure Jane Lunatic (Azz) 🌺 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azurelunatic) wrote2012-04-20 02:39 am
azurelunatic) wrote2012-04-20 02:39 am
Entry tags:
It *was* good pizza, at least.
Our story begins at some point after 1pm on Wednesday, with an email from one of the many sub-managers attached to my direct manager. (In the hierarchy, consider my manager to be General Alys; this manager would be one of the other High Vor Ladies.) One of the weekly meetings (the same series that I caused so much ruckus at the other week) had been moved to a lunchtime format. It would therefore need ALL THE PIZZA, and also something else for the gluten-free members of the team.
Notably, the meeting was to begin at 12 noon the following day.
It was suddenly immaterial that I was zombie-marching into the office in the afternoon, because it was already later than the cafe would require for a special order. I hustled in, pausing a few times in my whirlwind of readiness to email inquiries about details, and galloped off to my general-logistics-for-upcoming-event meeting, at which I was once again forbidden from playing with the trebuchets. (I'm probably not allowed to launch things at Facebook, and I'm definitely not allowed to order the cute desktop toy ones for the conference. All projectile toys, in fact, are banned. Also noisemaker toys. The union of the forbidden comes in those little metal concave discs that you bend and set down, and then they snap back into their regular shape, propelling themselves in the air. You can get hundreds with your logo on them. They're both noisy and a projectile. Beautiful.) The meeting was productive, despite my wisecracking.
I sourced pizza delivery online, and located a likely place. Some back and forth later, we'd found a cheaper place (but through the same get-yer-delivery-here web portal), the manager in question had picked out some things, and Lady Alys popped up with her corporate card. She charged me to use it wisely and well, and return it to her the next day. (It was end-of-shift by that time.)
I looked at the plan as it was, and decided that a few factors just would not do. Instead of a noon delivery time, I went for 11:45; I also booked the meeting room for 15 minutes before, with the plan of meeting the deliverator at the door, escorting the deliverator to the meeting room, allowing for setup, and having the lunch ready to go at the time the team arrived. I placed the order online, specifying in the order notes that the deliverator should come around to the building with the meeting, entering the credit card information online, then securely locking the card into a drawer. All was in readiness.
Naturally my fucking car chooses to make more weird noises (the clunking was joined by a bit of a grinding noise, still coming from the front driver's side quadrant, again not just audible but felt through the seat of the pants) on the way in. Naturally. I zip up to my office, look up the room location again (it's in Building D, I'm in Building C: pretty close but still a bit of a ways) and get going. There I am in the appointed place at the appointed hour, in the fucking sun (Silicon Valley is unnaturally sunny, unlike the lovely foggy coast) and --
-- Did you know that it is immensely difficult to tell the difference between a developer in a not-outlandishly-expensive car and a deliverator in an unmarked car, until they step out and they're not bearing pizza? Very similar demographic.
So I waited outside building D, posting the odd comment to Twitter. Evil daystar. It hits noon, I'm starting to become concerned, and then I get word that my deliverator is at reception. In building A.
I hustle over to retrieve the deliverator and escort him to the meeting room, cranky with myself for not having known that he must have had to stop at reception even though my instructions said otherwise. I apologize for not realizing that this part was mandatory; I'd thought since he wouldn't be staying and I'd be with him for the whole 15 minutes it took to do this, that bypassing reception could be a thing (and I'd have to walk less, and walking does hurt).
So then it turns out that he never got those instructions, and just showed up at A by default. Oookay then. We determine that this was probably lost somewhere in transcription. I usher him in to the meeting room, he divests himself of the food, hands me the receipt, I start ushering him out. Then he declares that this was supposed to be cash. We are halfway between D and A at this point. I express my confusion, as I'd paid online by CC. Further confusion ensues. I complete the journey to A (texting General Alys), where I leave him in Reception to wait; no need to drag him actually with me. I slog back to C, and retrieve the card from the locked drawer; I limp to D and retrieve General Alys (who was fortunately right by the door); we advance upon A and Reception, card and attempting to untangle and all.
It was of course rather more aiiiii in the doing than it is in the retelling. Stuff is sorted out in at least a preliminary sort of fashion, and there may need to be follow-up. We return to the meeting, at which I make visual wisecracks to my immediate neighbors about iconizing self-signed certificates. Mr. Clean cedes his seat to me, which was very nice.
The meeting breaks up. A few folks delegate themselves to bear the leftover pizza and salad back to C. I follow this train, and finally manage to snag a couple pieces. It is good pizza, even cold.
I am armed with spreadsheets and highlighters. THINGS WILL HAPPEN.
To top it all off, of course I cannot convince my car to reliably make that same noise again. *sigh* Troll car.
Notably, the meeting was to begin at 12 noon the following day.
It was suddenly immaterial that I was zombie-marching into the office in the afternoon, because it was already later than the cafe would require for a special order. I hustled in, pausing a few times in my whirlwind of readiness to email inquiries about details, and galloped off to my general-logistics-for-upcoming-event meeting, at which I was once again forbidden from playing with the trebuchets. (I'm probably not allowed to launch things at Facebook, and I'm definitely not allowed to order the cute desktop toy ones for the conference. All projectile toys, in fact, are banned. Also noisemaker toys. The union of the forbidden comes in those little metal concave discs that you bend and set down, and then they snap back into their regular shape, propelling themselves in the air. You can get hundreds with your logo on them. They're both noisy and a projectile. Beautiful.) The meeting was productive, despite my wisecracking.
I sourced pizza delivery online, and located a likely place. Some back and forth later, we'd found a cheaper place (but through the same get-yer-delivery-here web portal), the manager in question had picked out some things, and Lady Alys popped up with her corporate card. She charged me to use it wisely and well, and return it to her the next day. (It was end-of-shift by that time.)
I looked at the plan as it was, and decided that a few factors just would not do. Instead of a noon delivery time, I went for 11:45; I also booked the meeting room for 15 minutes before, with the plan of meeting the deliverator at the door, escorting the deliverator to the meeting room, allowing for setup, and having the lunch ready to go at the time the team arrived. I placed the order online, specifying in the order notes that the deliverator should come around to the building with the meeting, entering the credit card information online, then securely locking the card into a drawer. All was in readiness.
Naturally my fucking car chooses to make more weird noises (the clunking was joined by a bit of a grinding noise, still coming from the front driver's side quadrant, again not just audible but felt through the seat of the pants) on the way in. Naturally. I zip up to my office, look up the room location again (it's in Building D, I'm in Building C: pretty close but still a bit of a ways) and get going. There I am in the appointed place at the appointed hour, in the fucking sun (Silicon Valley is unnaturally sunny, unlike the lovely foggy coast) and --
-- Did you know that it is immensely difficult to tell the difference between a developer in a not-outlandishly-expensive car and a deliverator in an unmarked car, until they step out and they're not bearing pizza? Very similar demographic.
So I waited outside building D, posting the odd comment to Twitter. Evil daystar. It hits noon, I'm starting to become concerned, and then I get word that my deliverator is at reception. In building A.
I hustle over to retrieve the deliverator and escort him to the meeting room, cranky with myself for not having known that he must have had to stop at reception even though my instructions said otherwise. I apologize for not realizing that this part was mandatory; I'd thought since he wouldn't be staying and I'd be with him for the whole 15 minutes it took to do this, that bypassing reception could be a thing (and I'd have to walk less, and walking does hurt).
So then it turns out that he never got those instructions, and just showed up at A by default. Oookay then. We determine that this was probably lost somewhere in transcription. I usher him in to the meeting room, he divests himself of the food, hands me the receipt, I start ushering him out. Then he declares that this was supposed to be cash. We are halfway between D and A at this point. I express my confusion, as I'd paid online by CC. Further confusion ensues. I complete the journey to A (texting General Alys), where I leave him in Reception to wait; no need to drag him actually with me. I slog back to C, and retrieve the card from the locked drawer; I limp to D and retrieve General Alys (who was fortunately right by the door); we advance upon A and Reception, card and attempting to untangle and all.
It was of course rather more aiiiii in the doing than it is in the retelling. Stuff is sorted out in at least a preliminary sort of fashion, and there may need to be follow-up. We return to the meeting, at which I make visual wisecracks to my immediate neighbors about iconizing self-signed certificates. Mr. Clean cedes his seat to me, which was very nice.
The meeting breaks up. A few folks delegate themselves to bear the leftover pizza and salad back to C. I follow this train, and finally manage to snag a couple pieces. It is good pizza, even cold.
I am armed with spreadsheets and highlighters. THINGS WILL HAPPEN.
To top it all off, of course I cannot convince my car to reliably make that same noise again. *sigh* Troll car.