randnix.com

… well, not really, but even if, Carson Daily is an idiot.

Hey –

Guess what?   We went through with IT!

The pastor showed up, the parents gave their blessing, hell, even I was only 20 minutes late or so…. all in all, it could hardly have gone off more smoothly.

Great thanks to everyone who got us through it and helped to make it as spectacular event as it could be.   (Although, seriously, the fireworks were a little over the top…)

Now, we sit in paradise… more on that later, but OMG, I have NEVER in all my travels, been in a place like this.

So, go back to work.   The beach beckons… 

r.

We were discussing the training we’re putting together for tomorrow night, and I was on the call to provide some technical insight as to what to expect during the training, when the conversation abruptly turned to "Cerveza Preferencias".

I never heard a consensus on the actual question, but what was made abundantly clear was that the guy running the show would bring a Keg of beer.

40 people.  2 hours of training.   1 Keg of beer.

While interesting, that in itself isn’t the funny part.

The funny part was when some guy on their team mentioned that the venue for this training, he was pretty sure, wouldn’t allow them to bring in Cerveza’s.

At which point, this is actually what he said…

"DAMMIT, I KNOW we’re not allowed to bring in anything, so if we’re not allowed to bring in ANYTHING, we may as well bring in a DAMN KEG."

…and no one could find a way to argue with that logic.

SO, tonight ends the final unknown.   And with its successful resolution, I can now make it public that, as you no doubt have heard rumors of, I am scheduled to get married on 11/08/2008.

To a woman.

An incredible woman.

But I couldn’t say anything before now because, like Robin Williams in "license to wed", this guy we’re trying to have marry us has a 100% track record.   Never had a divorce in any marriage he’s performed.   And he has to interview us before he agrees.   3 meetings.  So we were very much on the examination rack over the last few weeks as we completed his rigorous pre-nuptial examination into every aspect of our lives.

At the end, although he did concede that with us lying so much to him, he really couldn’t tell, he did, ultimately, agree to show up and marry the two of us.

Whew.   It’s not easy keeping the story straight when you don’t even know what questions he’s going to throw at you, but Kara and I did it.   If that’s not better than his stamp of approval of our honesty, then I don’t know what marriage is about.

No, actually, we were completely honest while keeping in the funky KaRand groove we’ve settled into over the last couple of years in which a sense of humor is so totally necessary that to show up without one guarantees an immediate dismissal.  Fortunately, this man of the cloth (I don’t know what you call one of those whose affiliation is Lutheran, but I’m sure someone will let me know), is also not completely unarmed when it comes to the style of quick wit communique employed by me and my future better half, so in keeping with everything that’s gone good for the two of us since we met, Mr. Oscar Bene-vidade-something will definitely be marrying us and dining at our expense afterward.

I can’t tell you how excited we are about that.   The Justice of The Peace, and I’ve met him, under less than desirable circumstances, was NOT our first choice, although he was an alternate.

So the KaRand train is in full motion — and like Kara told me on one of our first dates, it’s a Good Karma Train, and if you feel like gettin’ on — we’d be happy to take ya!

Much love,

r.

So we’ve received a box from UPS with the Bed Bath and Beyond logo on it.  I should also mention it is also covered with stickers that say "Fragile – Handle with Care."  The stickers are red with big, bold, white letters that are invisible to the "team" at UPS charged with the safe delivery of said Fragile Box from the BB&B warehouse to my porch.

The left side of the box is completely caved in.   The sticker going around it that says "Don’t sign for this if I’m broken" is just barely hanging on by a thread.   One of the corners is bashed in with holes ripped viciously through the cardboard on 3 sides….

… the thing is, I didn’t have a chance to "not sign" for it because the UPS guy or gal just dropped it on the door mat, knocked as lightly as he or she could and then took off as fast as that brown van/truck thing could go.

So, I want to open it to see if whatever’s inside is intact or destroyed, but if I do that, then I may be destroying the evidence we’d need for UPS to give us some insurance money.   Then again, if we don’t need the insurance because it’s not destroyed, then opening it would be a grand idea.  

My head’s been going in circles on this thing, it’s like I really need to see what’s inside before I can decide if I want to see what’s inside.   In a way, it’s very Quantum.   Much like Schroedinger’s Cat, the contents of that box are both intact and destroyed right this second.    They will remain that way until they are observed.   At which time, popular quantum notion holds, two parallel universes will be created.   Depending on the vibrations of the tiny strings that comprise all known matter, I will then either be conscious in a universe that contains the boxes contents intact or the one in which the boxes contents are salvage.

Which ultimately means that, like fishing, when I go to open the box, I better be "holding my mouth right" if I want to wind up in my preferred universe; that being, of course, the one in which the boxes contents are intact (it’s a big box.)

Or, maybe I wimp out completely, and let Kara open it when she gets home.   Then the fate of the universe lies on her shoulders and not mine.

That may be the best plan. 

Be a lot easier if this was Schroedinger’s Cat instead of a box from Bed Bath and Beyond.   I hate cats.

Once again, my Elite status with American Airlines has failed to get me into First Class.  It has, however, gotten me into a reclining exit row seat, which, as all seasoned economy class jet setters know, is the next best thing.

I’m sitting next to the trophy wife of a family of 5 who’ve secured the rest of the row.  She’s advising the middle daughter (there may be 10 years difference between them) across the aisle as to the wisdom of pulling out what she thinks she might need for the first 20 minutes of the flight out of her carry on and then storing it in the ‘overhead bin’ until ‘the captain has turned off the fasten seat belt sign.’   Solid advice, I think, if not somewhat obvious.

"Mom" has heeded her own advice too.  She’s packed a folder.  As we’re taxiing, she begins to peruse the contents.   LAX is NOT their final destination.   I know this because inside the folder is a 232 page dossier containing every possible detail about what must be the mother of all vacations.  I see "Fiji" on one sheet; "Sydney" on another.   She flips through page after page of itinerary details.   Every child has a separate one, evidently, and she’s made copies of each which she folds and places into 3 envelopes and distributes to the pack across the aisle.   She continues flipping and I’m amazed to see one page of just names and social security numbers (5 of them).   There are photocopies of drivers licenses, passports, credit cards, pages detailing airline gates, times, even side notes containing the type of jet for each leg of the journey.  Brochures stapled to pages of notes, print outs of hotel web pages, one page listing every US embassy in the world; it’s all rather amazing, I think.

"Well, you obviously didn’t plan this out very well," I say, as she’s packing it all back up into seatback pocket in front of her.   She starts to turn to look at me and I realize this could very well turn into something that might cause a really long conversation so I fold my arms across my chest and close my eyes.

Predictably, she doesn’t attempt a reply and I settle in for the flight wondering exactly at what point do excessive organizational skills cross the line into OCD, quite sure I will never be at risk of becoming a victim of either.

"I don’t know, she has some sort of misplaced trust in your ability to behave in social settings."

–  One of my clients (the one I usually quote).   Re:   My recounting of the "work function" at which I sat (unknowingly) next to my fiances boss and, well, you can imagine what a nightmare that turned out to be.

"No problem.   I like ‘funny people’."

– my fiances boss in response to her (the fiances) attempt at damage control over my ‘ability to behave’ the night before.

SO, I don’t know what I did… I was trying to put on my comfortable, lightweight, extremely breathable footwear which are very sandal – like, but which I will not call sandals for fear of sounding a little lite in the — y’know what?   nevermind –  when something slipped and I hit the cord of the fan (which was on) in the bedroom, causing it to shift slightly right (my right, your left) and clockwise (for you, counter) and before I could really even register that this had happened, the thing (as in the fan, not the cord) starts sputtering like a . . . I don’t know – it was like the sound you’d hear if you were to take something pretty inflexible and shove it into the path of something rotating really really fast, but not really moving in any direction – so every rotation caused it to hit whatever you had shoved into it over and over, really really fast-like. It was that kind of sound.

The next thing I know, I’m reaching for the fan to figure out what’s causing it to make this sound, because I don’t see anything poking into the front of it, but I can hear this sound and it’s a pretty distinct sound, y’know, but then I stop for just a millisecond to confirm in my head that I’m not hearing something that SOUNDS like an object of some type shoved in the way of turning fan arms, but what is REALLY intense sparks of high voltage electricity spitting out from something I’m about to touch, and I do a quick visual, y’know, just to confirm that I don’t see anything that might be spitting out electricity (or anything else for that matter) and that’s when it happened: from out of nowhere, the fan attacked me; in fact, as if anticipating my worst fear… it started spitting at me.

My first thought was that the fan had come apart and all the little things flying toward me were fan casing shrapnel chunk pieces or something, which, I’ve watched enough tv to know, is usually quickly followed by the razor sharp spinning blades themselves. My second thought was that if that were about to happen, having more room between me and the source of these vicious flying death fan razors would be a lot better than if I were to continue my “approach vector”, so I backed off. But it was too late — the stuff started pelting my face.  Instantly I reached up to protect my face from the flying fan shrapnel and, at the exact same moment, jerked my head down to keep as much of my face as possible out of the fans line of fire (no, I haven’t actually had Navy SEAL training, but you’ll never convince the fan that I haven’t), and then I’m noticing that the blast radius created from the flying death fan shrapnel is actually quite wide for a little room fan (even if it is labeled “Turbo”) and in fact, I’m basically in the middle of a whirlwind of spinning flying fan shrapnel, but it doesn’t hurt! It’s like the fan sucks so bad that it’s missing with every shot, I think. Only then I realize it’s not missing – I’m just not FEELING anything.

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So in between them, in my crisis driven existence, I sometimes say to myself, (get ready for it), "SELF, " (you knew it was coming), " You oughtta go see what’s going on in the blogosphere, and, by that, I mean, your blog."

If, by the time that thought continues its journey across my frontal lobe, some other person hasn’t advised of another crisis involving their inability to convert kg’s into lbs properly, or some other greatly exaggerated use of the word "urgent", then I usually type in randnix.com just to see what I used to write about.

And I always feel like a shitheel® when I see someone who commented on how glad they are I’m back blogging — only the comment was put into moderation like 5 months ago and I haven’t blogged since.  I don’t even really remember when I put comments to be moderated.   Why would I moderate someone’s comments?   What was I thinking?   Or is that the default?   How can I build the systems that run the Fortune 500 and not know anything about why my blog comments are heading into moderation with no intelligent thought or action on my part?

These questions weigh heavily on my mind for about 6 seconds before I come up with another great idea (usually involving a can of great tasting-less filling, Miller Lite!  The beer that’s NEVER watered-down, so you can RAISE it up!)

How’s that for what we call in The Biz, "Product Placement"?   I expect an official spokesperson agreement in the mail any day now.

Actually, not to detract from what is unquestionably a great beer, Miller Lite, the ONLY beer bringing you a better, bolder summer where you could win a 105th Anniversary Edition Harley-Davidson Motorcycle ®, I’d like us to be serious for a moment, as I’ve recently had some revelations, or insight, or discoveries, or maybe just common sense that I never had before — I don’t know — but it’s about something, I think, a lot of us take for granted and we shouldn’t (and, no, I’m not talking about the Award Winning Taste of The Original Light Beer, Miller Lite!)  I am talking about something far more biological in nature: 

Poop.

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…because where else can you find Herb flavored Trident, and Chocolate flavored Dentyne?

Actually, maybe you can find that anywhere — it’s just that in Dallas I never find myself at a place offering a bunch of it at the till. 

Speaking of tills, the room safe is a new model.  It’s about the standard size of a room safe and slightly smaller than the average till.   So, figure, maybe, 1 foot by 1 foot (although, admittedly, it is pretty deep.)   Nevertheless, after 14 mostly sleepless hours trying to get here, I found myself intrigued with the notion of exactly what audience they had in mind when they plastered the inside door with the warning sticker:   “WARNING – DANGER OF SUFFOCATION”