Because my mortgage doesn't seem to want to pay itself, I have to work. And, as regular readers of this blog will know, for the past four years, I have worked at an insane asylum. And, as regular readers will also know, it isn't so much my job duties that generate the stress as it is the office dynamics. After years of having to reprint copies of reports for my boss, who can never seem to keep track of the originals, being interrupted so that I could go fetch him some manila folders, because, God forbid, he should actually have to walk back to the supply room and get his own supplies, and repeatedly reassuring him that our copier, is, in fact, working properly after having to find a tactful way of explaining that his headaches with the machine are really caused by operator error, I finally found one beacon of light, something that I could consistently turn to time and time again for comfort and a pleasant reminder that there are other things in life besides bosses and jobs that bring new meaning to the comic strip Dilbert.
And thus began my love affair with a vending machine.
It was about a year ago now when the blessed machine first appeared in the building across the parking lot. I discovered it quite by accident. I had made a trip next door to get a drink from the existing, traditional vending machine, and, upon arrival in the break room, discovered that building management had made a most welcome addition to their collection of break supplies.
It was a fantabulous vending machine that housed milk, sandwiches, salads, lunchables, soup, and other microwaveable meals. Nothing was more than $2.75, which, when one is consistently spending $7 downstairs at the deli even though she resolves every week to start bringing her lunch like a fiscally responsible person, made it seem much more acceptable to waste 10 minutes every morning hitting the snooze button one last time instead of getting up in a prompt manner that allowed for time to make one' s lunch.
But the best thing about this machine was that it had a whole row dedicated to Hostess products.
I love Hostess. My husband hardly ever lets me buy hostess products because Little Debbie's is so much cheaper, but there is no comparing the two as far as I am concerned. Hostess has completely cornered the market on tasty, preservative-laden chocolate and cream-filled deserts.
It was love at first sight. I began making jaunts next door on a regular basis, as much as the change in my wallet would allow, to see what new and exciting treats the vending machine was so kindly offering. Sometimes it had chocolate covered donuts. Sometimes it had Hostess cupcakes. Other times it had pies or Zingers or cinnamon cakes. It didn't matter what the selections for the day were--the machine always had something that could ease the sting of having to endure another day at the office.
Today I journeyed next door for my regular rendez-vous after deciding that the peanut butter and jelly sandwich I had for lunch just wasn't going to cut it, but alas, my brief moment of respite from work/hell was not to be realized. Someone had taken my machine.
I am not sure if building management decided not to renew its lease or if they decided it wasn't profitable, or if the vending machine company went out of business. Whatever the reason, it made for a dark day.
I think this is Fate's way of getting back at me for the return of Deal or No Deal.