Any meeting that starts with me declaring, passionately, “Our goal is to remind the consumer how unhappy they really are,” sets off a chain of alarm bells and internal, soul-ish questions that send me straight into Substop’s melty Arms of Cheese.
I don’t have a lunch in the office fridge today because A. is sick with the backyard scoots (you can thank my Granddad for that expression) and therefore nobody packed one for me. Helpless! Lunchless! Screw it!
So. Substop, again. My panic hunger place. Home of dark wheat bread and a melty mix of smoked cheddar/swiss/provalone, plus nearly painless parking, even at noon. I typed “Substop” into the ruthlessly honest MyFitnessPal app/enemy to assess the caloric damage while I waited with my call number, and whaddayaknow, no matches! What lies behind 58B is an unknown, an off-the grid steamed sandwich treasure. Ignorance is bliss. Fatty, sloppy ignorance and big-assed bliss to protect me from my own carefully cultivated marketing jackassery.
Also today: I have been doing a bit of internet research on children’s clydesdale costumes, and it seems that my Bird is the only child to ever request a clydesdale costume, ever. We will set the internets on fire with this, my friends. We will become the gold standard of child clydesdales, for all who are interested.
Would you like some links, cutie pie?
About to start this book (after the weekend, though, as there is much work to be done and the Midwesterner in me is entirely too sensible to set it aside for a moment)
“Relationships make life great, not jobs.” Nice piece on NOT doing what you love. This would have helped clear a few things up for me six months ago, when I was grappling with these kinds of questions.
The weekend is upon us. Go out and do it.