Well, sometimes, all it takes is a Post-It note stuck to your monitor when you come back to your desk…

     And when you combine that with everything else, well, that’s when it’s obvious that you’ve really got something really special. 

     So between Work and Wildcat, I haven’t been around much lately.  Go figure!

     It’s no big secret — err, well, maybe it is — that I’ve been doing IT work since 1986.  Not your average IT guy, mind you, but the type who gets a Monday morning call, gets on a plane, and goes and fixes something at a semiconductor manufacturing plant in Malaysia, then gets back in time to have a beer with the Pirate Chicks™ on Wednesday night.
     In and out, real fast, get paid.  That’s the way I like it.

(Video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yPM7jdE7gWs)

     No, I didn’t mean like that, although, I have had my days…

     Last year, I hooked up with the owner of a business of the Adult variety.  She marketed my skills pretty well (no, seriously, not like that!), and I ended up working on a few websites and servers which I probably never would have had they not been so professional.  I mean, these are business people, first and foremost, and if you can keep your head around nudity and porn and do your job, then you’re going to be highly regarded.
     And so it was today that I ended up working on two servers for one such customer, and learning a hosting control panel that I’d never seen before, all the while brushing up on the foreign language it was written in.
     A good day.  A busy day.  And paid in full for my services already, which is almost unheard of these days.

     I was supposed to pick up the Wildcat earlier today, but circumstances beyond our control prevented it.
     Since I’d already scheduled around it, however, it gave me time to sit down and catch up on what used to be my regular blog reads.  One of them pointed me towards a “new” blogger, Gina at Life’s Short, where I found something that had me laughing my ass off for a solid half hour.

     I expect great things from this one. 

     Back at the end of 80’s, when my hair was halfway down my back and I was playing in a Thrash Metal band (we said it was Power Metal — but let’s be honest), I was having a great time.  All 5′9, around 170 pounds of me could walk up on stage and play any instrument that needed to be played — of course, that was limited to guitar, bass and drums at the time.  My voice was a solid octave and a half deeper than what it is now.  I could sing bass and baritone like nobody’s business, with booming volume that would rattle our drummers cymbals even before the mic was turned on.

     Off-stage was a different story.  Nobody could understand a damn thing I said back then, as my voice was so deep that it simply faded off into the background, only to be heard by animals, those odd people who get sick before an impending earthquake, and people who were so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal.

     We traveled around quite a bit, and just had a good time with it.  We made enough money to keep ourselves in cigarettes, food, alcohol, hotel rooms and gas for the truck and van, and pretty much the only thing we had to worry about was how we were going to be treated when we got to our next stop.  In most places, people were pretty cool, but there were certainly a few towns where there might’ve been six whole teeth in the lynch mob walking towards us at the gas station or restaurant we’d stopped at.
     One night in particular, we’d driven out of Jacksonville, North Carolina driving towards Virginia Beach.  Instead of taking the interstate like a normal human being, Michael led us through every curve of US17, through rural North Carolina at 2AM.  “It’ll be easier!” he assured us on the walkie-talkie.
     Of course, if you’ve ever seen the movie This is Spinal Tap, you know it never is.

     Around 3AM, in heavy fog in the middle of nowhere, the van had flat tire.  We all pulled to the side of the road, and all five of our long-haired, dumb-punk asses got out to watch, assist, smoke cigarettes and generally complain.  Dave and Jeremy, instead of holding the flashlights where Michael could see what he was doing, began having a lightsaber duel with the flashlights in the fog.  I had one of my typical “bad feelings” that I used to get, and started urging everyone to get serious so we could get back on the road.
     “Man, chill out!” Dave urged.  “It’ll be fine!”
     Shortly after he said it, we heard a noise that sounded like a pack of wild indians.
     “What the Hell was that?” Michael asked, just before banging his knuckles on the concrete due to a slightly stripped lug nut.
     “Probably some birds or something,” Chris said, completely uninterested as he held the third flashlight where Michael could see.
     Then we heard it again, along with a mechanical noise that sounded exactly like a clutch-slipping on a big, red truck with a gun rack in the back window.  From behind us, down the road, the lights kept getting closer, and the whooping and hollering got louder and louder.
     “Oh, shit, Michael!” I exclaimed.  “Hurry the f$&* up, man!”
     Without a word, Michael furiously pulled off the damaged tire and handed it to Chris, who quickly replaced it with another from the back of the van.
     The whooping got louder and louder, the lights closer.
     We all stood silent, watching, waiting.  We were all nervous.

     As Michael was tightening the first lug nut, they were on us.  It was, in fact, a big, old, beat up, red-and-primer truck, three people in the front and three standing in the bed holding on to the top of the cab screaming like a bunch of wild indians.  They passed us silently, all of them peering at us like they’d never seen human beings before.
     We all breathed a sigh of relief until we looked ahead, and saw the truck put on its break lights — and started backing up.
     “Michael, hurry up, dude!” Dave exclaimed.
     In a fever, he quickly finger-tightened the remaining nuts and began spinning the speed wrench as fast as he could.
     We all stood around Michael as they pulled up, still silent, still looking straight at us with looks of disbelief on their faces.  The three in the back of the truck jumped out, shirtless with overalls, and the passenger door of their truck swung wide with a loud creak.
     “Ya’ll ain’ frum ‘roun’ heeyah, ah ya?” said the biggest one, who looked like he could’ve picked the van up without the jack.
     “Uhhh, no sir,” I stammered.  “We’re driving through on the way to Virginia Beach.”
     He looked back at his five friends, quietly at first, then turned back around shaking his head as they all began to snicker.  “Ya’ll shu’ got lawng hayur!” he said.  They all began to laugh.
     We blinked back at them, holding our implements of destruction close.  My knife was ready to flip from my pocket and Michael held the speed wrench as Dave, Chris and Jeremy clutched their Maglights.
     “Ya’ll in a bayund?” he asked.
     “Yes, sir, we are,” I told him.
     “Wail,” he started, turning around to look at his friends, grinning and snickering a bit.  “Why dincha jus’ say so?  Sheeyit!”
     They all laughed.
     “Yawnt any help with’at tar?” another asked.
     Relief!

     We stood around and talked for a few minutes with them.  They were cool people, out drinking a bit and “raisin’ some hail!”  They offered some assistance getting everything back in the van, asked if we liked Metallica or Megadeth better, and even tossed us all a beer right there on the side of the road.
     Eventually, after having a beer with ‘em and acting like idiots for a while, we offered our thanks, said our goodbyes, got our mini-caravan back togther and continued on to Virginia Beach.

     It was funny… There we were, with our long hair, worrying about people judging us for it all the time.  When six people in a beat-up truck drove by in the middle of rural North Carolina, we were doing the same damn thing.

     Good people are getting harder and harder to come by these days. 

     I mean, hey, they didn’t even have a problem hearing my deep voice.

     Just goes to show, you really can’t judge a book by its cover… 

     Even the ones who are so blitzed on alcohol and downers that I sounded normal. 

We had just sat down to have our mid-day bread breaking when a good-old boy, who apparently either can’t read or just doesn’t give a shit about the no-soliciting sign on the door cruised in.  I figure it’s the latter, as it is posted on our door in plain sight where one would grab the handle and pull the door.

So, there we are.  I wish my delicious Chicken Caesar Salad and  OG with her ethinic beet soup.  We are about to give thanks and partake, when this asshole walks in.

“Did you miss me?”  He asks as he swaggers our way, booty in hand.

“Uh, no.  It’s been about a year though,”  OG says.

He sets his goods, dozens of long stem roses (which were mighty pretty to be sure) on our lunch table.

“Remember how much they are?”  He winks at OG as she was the one who actually paid notice to his punk ass interupting our bread breaking.

“No,” she says. “But it doesn’t matter.  We don’t want any anyway.”

Then I chime in, “You can donate some for my bachelorette party tonight.”

Of which he offers congrats, but ignores the donation request… dick.

“Well, you could buy some to toss at your stripper,” he says, trying to appeal to my wild side.

“I ain’t got no stripper lined up, dude!”  I reply, aghast that he would even dream up that sales pitch.

“Mother or mother-in-law you could get some for?” he’s getting desparate.

So I decide to go in for the kill.

“Look guy, I’ll be completely honest. I’m not buying any because I am saving every penny to get balls out drunk tonight and if I buy your roses… that, my friend, will cut into my drinking budget.”

Have a great desert day, pal.

So, today marks the day of an ever so joyous event.  Diva’s bachelorette party!!!  Yay!

Well, our beloved Mark is sitting back, and sniveling, because he has a penis, not a vagina.

No penises at Diva’s bachelorette party.  Only people who are proud owners of a vagina are allowed as we will be greatly misbehaved and no males are allowed to be there to witness such naughty things as will be going on tonight. 

In addition to lotsa drinkin, games on tap include:

Pin the bow-tie on the bachelor, Do or dare cards (which promises to be loads of fun since Robyn will do almost anything if dared), and a naughty scavenger hunt.

Details and photographic evidence to follow.

     What the Wildcat and I had going as, “Hey, come down for the weekend!” has turned into “Hey, come down for a week, and get the second weekend for free!”  Driving alone back to Knoxville is getting more and more difficult.

     I didn’t pull out the camera much this past week or so, although, we still did plenty. Friday before last, we hung out at Buffalo Wild Wings and had a blast, thanks in no small part to good company … and lots of beer.

     Eventually, Zacque showed up, although it was fifteen short minutes after Mushy left. We headed over to Baileys where we attempted to hook him up with several interested waitresses.
     “I have a date at 9PM, ya assholes!”
     “Go, Zacque! Have another beer…”
     No arm-twisting required. *snicker*

     Saturday, we took a trip through my favorite place in the world (I’m not telling where!  Nyah nyah nyah!) checking out the scenery and history.
     Since we’d both enjoyed travelling around where her family had grown up the week before, it was natural to return the favor.  We even walked through a few graveyards while trading crazy-family stories.
     Sometimes, even if you’re not close with your family, there are places you can go and still feel close to your roots.

     Later that night, we ended up hanging out with a friend listening to a musician, and had an amusing conversation.
     “How old is she?” she asked.
     “Ahhh, 28,” I replied.  “Why?”
     “She’s so sweet,” she smilled.  “I thought maybe I should introduce her to one of my sons.  She’s so sweet, so I thought she was younger.”
     “Yeah, she’s good like that,” I smiled back, thinking how great it was that she approved of my friends as much as they approved of her.
     “Hmm,” she mumbled.  “And how old is Zacque?”
     “Why, you want to introduce him to one of your sons?”
     Uproariously laughter ensued.

     So nice to be with someone who shares my sick, twisted sense of humor.

     The rest of the week was much the same.  Sunday we were out again.
     ”You know,” she says.  “You really do flirt a lot…”
     My head went, ‘Was I…? Did I…? Errr… Oh, shit, here it comes… ‘
     “…and it’s fine to window shop, as long as you don’t pull your credit card out,” she continued.  She smiled, and gave me a big hug and a kiss.
     That was one of the most incredible things I’ve ever heard. 

     She’s meeting the people I consider family and loving ‘em, customers, friends I’ve known for years, and proving to be every bit as adaptable as I am.
     She’s just as comfortable walking through ticks and briars to find someplace neither of us have ever been, sitting in a Five Star restaurant with wine and too much silverware, going for a swim in a secluded mountain stream, having a conversation with an important client, or knocking back beer and fried food at a football party.

     I was joking around with a friend last year, and said, “Ya know, the kind of woman I need is the one who’ll check me for ticks, and say, ‘Ooh, there’s one! Lemme get him!’ and will actually do it…”
     And hearing, “Die, you damn thing!” after that is just icing on the cake.

     But it’s definitely more fun to check each other for ticks when you don’t actually have any…

I just hate craving that damned chinese food from that damned yummy place over here by the office. 

I mean, I get a craving for it and I decided that, despite the fact I know that evil ass munch won’t give me the fortune cookie without a square off in the middle of the parking lot, I was going to go have me some tastey morsels of saucy goodness.

So, as usual, I go in, get my little styrofoam container, proceed to the buffet of happiness, load up my choices and go to the register to pay.  I set my container on the scale, as they charge for buffet to go by the pound.  This is where it the ugly gets on.

So, everything seems to be going smooth.  I’m mentally preparing for the fight for the fortune cookie.  I intend to win this time. 

“You need sauce or fork?” he asks me all smug like.

“Nope. But I want a Diet Pepsi,”  I tell him.

“Diet Pesi!” he calls out to the chick at the waitress station.

She totes it over and sets it on the counter as he rings me up. 

“That be $4.62,” he tells me.

UH OH!  Houston we have a problem.  Diva don’t carry cash.  Just something I don’t do.  It’s way too easy to use my debit card to have to fool around with dollars.

This ass munch “only takey the credit cawd fo ova fi dolla.”  Hasn’t he seen that VISA commercial that shows the world is officially going plastic???

Still yet, I try to slip it by him.  I pull out my debit card with VISA logo and push it toward him.

“We only take cawd fo purchase ova fi dolla,” he reminds me.

“Look guy, I don’t have any cash.  Well I have a handful of change in the bottom of my purse, but not enough,” I tell him as show him my empty wallet.

“You always can get another drink take wif you,” he tells me.

“Uh, no. You can run my card or I’ll have to leave it,” I tell him, now pissed.

“Well, I not running cawd.  You get cash, come back,” he tells me.

“OK, fine!”  So, I walk out the door.  No lunch, no friggin fortune cookie, and definitely no balls to tell him what he could do with his no useless carton of to-go.

God Bless Taco Bell.  They’ll takey my debit card for an eighty-nine cent bean burrito.

So, I’m still extremely new to this living in the same house and sharing the same bedroom full time thing. Not that it’s bad.  Actually, it’s quite nice being able to reach over in the night and play with his hair or crawl across the bed and give him a light little kiss while he’s sleeping. 

What is taking some definite time to get used to is the fact that his alarm clock is a screamer!  When I say screamer, I don’t mean one of those annoying buzzer sounding things.  I mean it’s an indescribable sound that has rattled my ass awake a 4:45 in the morning.  Not only does it rattle my ass awake, the clock actually grows legs, walks around the bed to my side, shakes the piss out of me, picks me up and drops me right in the middle of the bedroom.

Now, I’m not a morning person by any means.  It really doesn’t matter if I get 4 or 8 hours of sleep.  But when that damn thing goes off before the chickens are even awake, that’s a problem for me.  Especially since his ass doesn’t get up when it goes off the first time.  No.  He slaps the snooooze button like 6 times.  So, six times I get picked up and dropped on my ass in the middle of the floor before daylight.  What the hell?  We are gonna have to find an empass.  A new alarm clock, maybe?  Setting the bitch a little later instead of hitting snooooooze so many times, maybe?

Anyway, so he finally wakes up after the 7th roar of the alarm.  I’m wide awake already.  Sitting up in bed, smoking a ciggie, waiting for coffee to get done. Me and the cat staring at him, daring him to hit snooooze again. Thank Jesus, no more snooooze button. 

He rolls over, smiles all sweet and says, “Honey, I know I complain alot.”

“What’s the matter?”  I ask in the sweetest 5am voice I can muster.

“Well, I woke up and had to pull this out of my ass.”  He says as he hands the DVD player remote to me laughing his ass off.

God bless his little heart. I love him so much.  Maybe this is the answer to my being late to work every day.  If I’m dropped in the floor and wide awake by 5am, surely I can make it work work on time by 8:30?
 

So, we get bombarded with uberous amounts of telemarketing calls every day at the office.  I’m usually not very nice to these poor people.  I know they are just doing their job, but for fuck sake…  Go back to school, get a degree and get a real job not bothering the people who already have a real job.  Jeeeez, it’s pretty simple.

Some days I’m pissy, so I find it an amusing way to take out some aggression and anger… “I’ve asked you damn people to put me and our other 3 numbers on you damn do not call list. Call me again, I dare ya.”

Some days I’m busy and I simply have no time for the bullshit they are trying to pimp off on me…  “I am way too busy to bother talking to you. Have a great day.”  Then I generally slam the phone in someone’s ear.

Some days I’m bored with work, and blogging, and Poppit, and porn *snicker*, so I may entertain a telemarketer for a few minutes if what they say off the bat is interesting enough to make me release the mouse and stop popping the balloons hanging on my monitor. 

Mind you, I never know if it’s my boss calling from Germany, so I always, ALWAYS answer the phone in an oh-so-pleasant voice… until I find out who it is.

“Good Morning, how may I help you?”  Note how pleasant that is.

“Hello, Ma’am.  This is Sherri.  I’m calling from Fairfield with a wonderful offer that we thought you may be interested in.”

I say, “Oh, really?  What kind of offer do you have there, Sherri?”

Sherri goes on her schpeeeeel now:
“Well, we are calling to offer to individuals who have been pre-qualified in your area, the opportunity to come stay for a week at one of our several resorts, your choice.  All you have to do is come and listen to a presentation about the property and take a tour.  We do have a small fee to cover taxes and meals, but the stay itself if complimentary.  What do you think?”

- First, let me tell ya, I’m sure I’m not prequalified for dick.  Up until a week ago, I didn’t own a home, I don’t have a husband, and I’m sure my credit report would make someone run screaming away…  But I decided what the fuck.  I’m bored.  I’ll play along.

So I say “Can I ask you to hold one sec.  I need to grab this other line.”
Totally a lie, but I need to get Olga to play along with me.  We are life partners from way back.   I run into Olga’s office and tell her the story and she’s all ready to play along.  So, I get back on the phone.

I start off….
“Thanks, Sherri.  I’m glad you held for me, I’d like to consider signing up.  I could use a cheap vacation.  You said there is no obligation?”

Sherri says, “No. No obligation at all.”

I ask, “How much is this fee you were talking about.”

Sherri says, “It’s not much.  Only $275.00 and you can even put it on your Visa or Mastercard.”

I say, “I can put it on a credit card?  But I don’t have a credit card.  My partner keeps them and won’t let me charge anything. Let me put her on the phone.”

I half expected to hear shock and/or awe in Sherri’s voice that my parter is a chick, and a dominating one that won’t give me a credit card at that.  But she was impressively non-judgemental since money talks.

Olga gets on the phone, “Hello?”

Sherri said, “Hi.  I’m Sherri from Fairfield.”

Olga asked, “What is this deal that you have Rhonda so excited about that she wants the credit card right now?”

Sherri goes through her whole schpeeeeel again.

Olga says, “Well, I don’t think we are interested.  I do not want to get tied up in a timeshare type deal and I know all about this kind of scam.  Since we aren’t married we aren’t qualified for any kind of couple deals or anything.”

Sherri didn’t want to lose the sale so she said, “Can you put Rhonda back on the phone?”

Olga goes on, “Well, it would be pointless to put her back on the phone since she has no money and no credit cards.  But you have a nice day now, ok?”

At least if Sherri was on an hourly wage, she made her money honestly that day.
And Mom, I’m getting married.  We aren’t really life partners.  Just partners in crime, heh.  =D

     Six years ago today, I was living in a wannabe-First-World country that finally made me realize, “Hey, this place is more f&*$ed up than a Football bat!”  After a couple of lengthy discussions, a bit of screaming, sporadic violence and some careful planning, I decided to come back to the United States after a three year absence.

     To everyone who says, “Oh, the [insert some random country's pathetic, government-provided excuse for a public solution] system is so much better in [insert some random country] than here in the US!” I would only say one thing:

     Move there and find out what it’s really like compared to here, instead of believing some fairy-tale novella written by some asshat academic who’s never stepped foot in the country he adores above his own.
     When it comes right down to it, the hard truth is that we get to enjoy the fruits of our labors, enjoying the best of most everything, whereas other countries export it for the good of their GDP.

     Never forget what happened six years ago today.

     Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.