Arg, Matey

I saw a pirate seagull today. As I walked to my car there were a number of seagulls screeching around, one of which was hopping around in the road fending off all comers to protect the delicous lumps of...whatever that was encrusted on the street. Something about the seagull didn't look right, I gave it a second glance, and oh yeah. He's only got one foot. Considering how thin seagull feet are, he wasn't even all that lopsided. He was stumping around on his peg just fine. I named him Long John Silver, and I do hope to see him dining on road trash in my neighborhood again.

Beach in February? Sure thing!

Once again I found myself about to leave North Carolina without having partaken of any "North Carolinian" delights. I saw no pottery (not a big "dish" fan), I didn't hike (ticks, eep!), and I managed to miss all parts of the Blue Ridge Mountains that weren't directly between me and Cleveland. I'd be damned if I missed the beach again, though. Word on the street had it that Wilmington Beach is the most beautiful to actually swim in, but Myrtle Beach was hopping all year round. I sent out a cry for help, and my co-workers came through in spades.



The view from our balcony, both straight out and straight down, was pretty fabulous. You can't see a chair shattered on the pool deck, or White Castle sliders on the island, but that's because this picture was taken "early." The first night we hit up Broadway at the Beach, a Pleasure Island-esque string of bars with varied themes and no open container laws, and found our home at The Blarney Stone, where the men promptly took over The Lair, martini glasses and all.

Our second night out there was joyously riotus through a number of establishments, until we ran afoul of a drink called 190 Octane, at which point it simply became riotous. Please allow me to set the scene:

Boisterous group in lively piano bar. One of the non-dancing group members (re: lame) gestures towards the door, group, still dancing, follows in a conga line fashion. Return to action.

I can't convey how bizarre it was to enter Fat Tuesday, which contained white tile, two shifty bartenders in front of a series of spinning slushy machines, and dudes. Dudes as far as the eye could see, silently staring at TV screens and nursing the straws of their colorful, slushy drinks. It looked like the opening scene of Lolita...

At this point in the evening I was all energy and smiles, sober and hyper and using the men of my group as alcohol mules. I cheerfuly passed off drinks (and glasses of water when they looked blurry) and husbanded my little band of donor livers through the evening. A case in point: upon entering Fat Tuesday, I still held my last drink from the piano bar, which the bouncer told me to finish. Right. I turned to Mike,

"Mike, will you drink.. oh wait, you're too drunk already. Bill! Bill, will you drink this?" (thrusts vodka and red bull at co-worker, attempts to look small and incapable).

It worked every time.

The bartenders gave Jamie and I samples of their wares, despite our (loud) comments about what a creepy sausage fest the place was. 190 Octance, or as I like to think of it, "the orange one," won the taste test, and after ordering I asked what the drink contained. Twice. Finally the bartender answered, nonchalauntly,

"151 and Everclear."

At this point I laughed, thinking he had just named two of the worst alcohols he could think of to be a jerk. He remained dead pan.

"No seriously, what's in it?"

"One drink won't hurt you..."

Oooook, that's where I started to think he wasn't kidding. I haven't fallen for a line like that since freshman year. 190 Octane explained the rows of silently staring, sweating, hopeful date-rapists lining the walls. Fat Tuesday's should have a bin to throw your panties in by the door. Realizing I held death in a cup, I embarked on a brazen, drink shell-game, in which my glass swooped in and out of my dazzled companions hands until I clutched an empty cup and a sober constitution. This allowed me to spend the rest of the night displaying supernatural (sober) powers, such as the ability to sit in a spinning bar stool without throwing up, and stand on one foot without falling over (as shown in the picture below).



Later that night, after a hysterical cab ride, we made it back to our hotel rooms safe and sound. We managed to convince Jamie that a swim in the ocean was not "a good idea" (mainly by pointing out how much paper work we'd have to fill out if she died), and watched Hennessey test the aerodynamics of various foodstuffs. I wonder if the mountains would be this much fun?

Today I learned something new.

I "mastered" the skill of linking to a picture rather than inserting it in the story (thanks for leading by example, Tess), thus removing the agony of chosing just a special few images to tell the story. The "Reuniting Young Love Tour" story of the grand Floridian adventure was my guinea pig, someone will have to let me know if the links to that old O-Photo album work for anyone other than myself. I finished a project at work today, and bizarely enough, I'm very, very happy with it, despite doing the opposite of what I was told to do and generating a cost savings of negative $73k (though that number is due to a correction of our screwy accounting system, and there was no savings to begin with). I was supposed to fix a machine that doesn't work well and isn't practical, but instead I took it out and re-organized the line around it. I use the pronoun "I" loosely, as it was only with the combined suggestions of three very large men (and the fact that the Value Stream Manager is on another continent this week) that I finally ponied up and said "Let's yank it out of there." After $20 bucks, it's all just funny money anyway.

Vermont, ho!

Word has come down from on high, as of February 24th, I'm to be done with Asheboro, NC and pointing my nose north to St. Albans, VT. I have a week in between, and I'm torn between planning a grand road trip adventure (DC to Philly to Vermont, Cincinati to Cleveland to Rochester to Vermont, etc. etc.) or simply bombing straight up to Vermont and vegetating before starting another 8 month stint. The EECaP human resource liaison sent me the website for the apartment I'll be staying in. It's a small building with four studio apartments, and while I don't relish the idea of spending 8 months in one room, I'm excited about the hard wood floors, the spare elegance of the apartments, and the prospect of being anywhere other than Asheboro. I kind of have my heart set on apartment #3 (as shown), but that seems silly considering #2 and #4 are pretty much identical. Interestingly enough, while surfing the Chamber of Commerce website looking for coffee shops and bookstores, I was scrolling through a depressingly long list of CPA's and lawyers. For this reason, seeing a listing for RAVE! Nightclub made me smile. I smiled, that is, until I noticed that RAVE! has the same street address listed as my apartment building. (sigh) That explains why the exterior shots of the building don't show the ground floor.

Once they stop carding you, even better questions start coming up.

My sinus infection finally drove me to the doctor's office. I was nervous, as this was the first time I'd gone to someone other than Dr. Wu in at least five years, but despite my alleged "nervousness," I fell asleep in the waiting room. I woke up when they called my name and groggily made my way into the exam room. I wasn't so much "shaking it off" as "falling asleep again" when the doctor barreled in. He was short and rather tense, kind of like a Jack Russell terrier with a medical degree.

"What are your symptoms?"

"Well, I have sinus headaches, I'm really tired all the time, and I have post-nasal drip."

"Are you pregnant?"

(pause)

"No."

He seemed skeptical, reading into my pause more than was there. What he imagined as a hasty catalogue of my ova was actually my horrified and confused mind thinking, "Post-nasal drip is a sign of pregnancy? My GOD, no one ever told me that!" The appointment deteriorated from there, with me dazedly contemplating the conspiracy of mothers that had never revealed the whole truth, and him angrily dismissing my ability to have allergies in winter.

I managed to recover on the ride home, though. I figure if this is the second coming of Christ, he's not going to bring sinus infection symptoms with him.

This past Christmas (no longer "Break") went by very quickly. I blew into Cleveland for what was essentially a long weekend, late Wednesday night to Monday afternoon, and enjoyed a mixed bag of familial interaction. This was our first Christmas without Katie, as she and Andy drove down to Columbus to spend it with the Wheatons, and we were all pretty bummed. Actually, it occurs to me, this was my first Christmas ever without Katie. I'd like to think Mom and Dad will miss me as much, should I ever miss a Christmas, but seeing as how Dad was willing to cut off my head to fit the dog into our traditional "First Look at the Tree" picture, I'm guessing I'll have to settle for being their "favorite" child on non-holiday occassions (such as Tuesdays and Boxing Day).

I frolicked with family by day and friends by night, which culminated in Bill leading my quivering, moaning, hung-over self to Chipotle before safely depositing me on a plane back to Greensboro. I'm not sure why I crave suburban Mexican food when in such a state, but I assume it falls under the "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" category of instincts. I flew back to Greensboro (insert hung-over moan here) for an in-plant holiday (which occurs whenever I'm at work but no one else is). My mentor was there, and in his words "I'm not your boss, but I'll tell your boss," so I had to put my roller derby plans on hold. I did get to wear jeans and watch people move heavy machinery, though, so the days flew by in a haze of enginerding glory. I then hoped on yet another plan to sunny Phoenix, Arizona, where most of my family (still sans Katie) was awaiting me, chips and salsa in hand. And yes, I did tip a bit of salsa onto the hot pavement for you, Katie. One for our homey.

In a burst of beneficence that changed Kevin's personal motto to "Dad, God, Country, Notre Dame," Dad arranged for us to attend the Fiesta Bowl. Despite the fact that we both purchased lucky sunglasses for the event, my eye-wear won the day. That, or Kevin's presentation of Touchdown Jesus as Street Performer jinxed the Irish big time. In any event, it got pretty uncomfortable in the stadium by the fourth quarter, and I was impressed by Kevin's ability to remain (relatively) calm. In reality he had just harnessed that rage for next weekend's cottage paintball extravaganza, during which he challenged Mr. Buckeye himself, Andrew Wheaton, to a bare chested paintball duel at 20 paces. After unloading on each other (Kevin got hit in the neck, but Andy just about lost a nipple), peace was restored to our family. Until next football season, that is.

"So, are you glad you're out of there?"

People keep asking me if I'm glad I've "finally" graduated. I'm usually smiling and jubilant when they ask, so it's difficult to convey anything other than a "yes," but I always want to tack on a qualifier. I'm not glad as in, "Thank God I'm out of there," I'm glad in a more positive sense. I'm happy where I am right now, with who I am. I feel like college has pointed me in the right direction and, as far as personal development is concerned, graduating is simply the first step. In other words, I still have a lot of work to do. Another trip begins here. There's going to be fewer "kids" in this one (as I call my peers), more money, different responsibilities, big questions, little inanities, and lots and lots of moments sliding through my hands into nostalgia.