I'm on the road again, living in a hotel in Birmingham tonight. I got my rental, with some confusion and me saying, "I don't care if it's a pickup truck, just give it to me." I got behind a really old man with political stickers all over his tailgate. Poor guy, all his favorite candidates lost. Maybe that's why he drove so slow?
The drive was about as exciting and eventful as you might expect. I listened to the radio. I played with all the buttons on the dash. I tried taking deep and meaningful photos with my keychain camera. I stopped to pee. You know, the usual crap.
I did notice that highway 78 in Mississippi coming out of Tennessee is a real piece of work. And by work I mean crap. It is as torn up as most anything I ever saw in Arkansas. I thought Arkansas was the king of crappy highways, but Mississippi is trying hard to take the title.
Is it a sin to drive with your tailgate open? I did it anyway. It's not my truck, but it is my gas. Whomever rented it last had a flat and they threw the tire in the bed. Apparently a new tire was installed, but the spare was just thrown back into the bed again. Since I wanted to run with the tailgate down I had to stuff the spare inside the extended cab with me.
Hey, at least I wasn't alone, eh?
Anyway, I got here faster than I was supposed to, which means the cruise control worked as designed. I immediately plugged up the company laptop, only to find that it would not allow me to log in. I called PC support and explained the situation to 5000 different people before they finally decided that what I needed to do was drive over to a Particular Building and plug into the network there. This would place all my info into the cache so that when I returned to the hotel it would remember who the hell I am.
So I hung up the phone and drove through Birmingham rush hour traffic, a lovely experience if you've never been fortunate enough to enjoy it, over to the Particular Building. I didn't bring my corporate badge, as I wasn't expecting to need to go onsite anywhere and be able to prove who I am. Also, I'm in jeans and a T-shirt. So I don't exactly look Banklike, if you know what I mean. I was expecting to have to give some detailed explanations as to who I am and what I needed to do.
Didn't happen. I walked in and looked all over the first floor for someone to talk to. I didn't see anyone, so I headed up to the only floor in this building that I've ever been on other than the first floor. I walked to the back of the building, found a network connection, and logged in. I didn't see another soul the entire time. Once I was in I shut down and headed downstairs. On my way out the door I encountered my first fellow employee. She was coming in as I was going out, so I held the door.
Let me tell you about her. She was about 5'9" or maybe 5'10" with the heels she had on. She was blonde. She was built like a brick house. She was about 25. She was very well dressed in a tight pink top and black pants. She was BEAUTIFUL. She smiled and thanked me for holding the door. And I nearly died. She looked so good it hurt. And here I had left my keychain camera at the hotel. Dammit!
I walked to my rented truck in a daze. Who was THAT?! Woo hoo! I want to be transferred. I want to work in THIS building. I want to work with HER.
Back out into Birmingham rush hour. Yeeha. My enthusiasm was slightly dampened by the press of traffic, but she was still on my mind. Beautiful Alabama girls are like no other. In that brief moment that she smiled and said "thank you" as she walked past she set me on fire. I'll be thinking about her all night, especially since I'm here all alone and have nothing to do and no one to talk to.
So I'm here on the computer watching the damned message light on the phone flashing like mad. I already listened to the message 3 times and there is no mention of options to delete it or make this light stop flashing. Yes, I KNOW I have a message. I already heard it. Thank you. Stop flashing, please.
I've got my cellphone pinned to my shoulder as My Wife tells me all about her day at work and I continue to type here on this laptop. In a minute I'll walk across the way to the nearest restaurant and eat by myself. I'll probably be thinking about that beautiful blonde Birmingham girl. What else is there to do? This isn't much fun at all.
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