I Thought This Was a Vacation

My first week of "unemployment" has been a Dickensian glimpse into what my post-collegiate career would have been like had I not gone into the Army. As my degree in Classical Studies has as much utility in today's world as underwater fire prevention, I would have no doubt had to resort to scrambling for bad jobs. Well, I've had nothing but bad jobs since I've landed on Terra Caroliniana.

I spent two days "visiting" my buddy, Dewey, which turned out to mean that he handed me a paint brush and told me to get to work. Two rooms and a few million brain cells killed by fumes later, I was adroitly booted back to Charleston where today my father had me rake the pasture (yes, pasture, not yard...he's got three horses grazing out there who think there's nothing funnier than to plop a pile onto a freshly raked mound of pine straw as I get the wheel barrow) and then dig an irrigation ditch. I have the rest of the ditch to look forward to tomorrow, along with chain- sawing fallen trees and anything else the bionic old man (two new hips) points for me to do.

They say there's nothing like doing something you don't want to do to help you figure out what you want to do. I don't want to do manual labor. That being said, apparently, I'm very useful with home improvement projects when I go to visit people. If y'all have anything you need done, just make sure to have beer on hand and be prepared to deal with whining.

Glimpses of Last Night's Party (ie What I Remember)

On the way to the party my buddy mentioned we were supposed to bring food, but that it was okay that we weren't since we were single guys. We stopped off at post to buy liquor and while there I sprung for a box o' chicken anyway. It's very classy to show up to a party with pretty people and fancy hors d'oeuvres carrying plastic bags with cheap vodka, cheaper bourbon, and greasy fried chicken. We got moderately snooty looks and many laughs for our contribution, but, as most of the other food had not been cooked and it was already 8pm when we arrived, the chicken vanished within minutes.

While talking with a fellow South Carolinian by the front door of the apartment (it opens into the living room) the buzzer rang and nine people came in. I did the standard shaking hands, smiling, saying my name and pretending to remember theirs. Then I went to where I put my coat, got my notepad out and affixed the following note to my chest:

"My name is ANDRE. I've probably forgotten yours. (It's the booze.)"

All the people whose names I already knew thought it was a hoot. The rest? Not so much.

I spent the majority of the party drinking out of my stein (three kegs of wonderful German beer kept the party running smoothly) and telling the same three stories to fifteen people (2 amusing anecdotes and then future plans). The only exception was a gargantuan (6 feet tall) pregnant woman whom my buddy invited me over to insult, being that she was from Oklahoma and I have a well tested tirade on the evils and misfortunes of that windy hellhole.

At about two in the morning, shortly before we were to leave (and quite a few steins of wonderful German beer down the gullet), I apparently thought it was a terrific idea to carry around a weightlifting dentist's wife caveman style. Then I spanked her in the kitchen, laughed my greatly inebriated head off, bolted to get my coat before her husband (or she) could kill me, and waltzed out the door with our ride.

Yes, I'm adapting to being a civilian quite nicely I think.

Ladykilling

The other night I was out with friends; well, as usual, I was the third wheel while my buddy Chris tried to work his magic with a stunner. There I was, several stiff drinks into the night, chatting along amicably with the impossibly tall and well proportioned (ie long legs, tiny waist, big hoo-hoos) red head, when I casually called her Stacy.

A look the likes of which I haven't seen before, namely a blend of amusement, anger, consternation, and disbelief, flashed across her face as she curtly informed me, "It's Tracy."

As any man should do in that situation, I chuckled, let out a groaning "ooooohh", and calmly polished off my drink. The smirk vanished from my face as I told her, "It's just that you remind me of my friend Stacy who died last year," and gazed wistfully into some unforseen distance.

"Really? I'm so sorry," she said, obviously concerned as she leaned in and touched my arm to lend emotional support.

I kept up the charade for approximately three tenths of a second before I chortled, shook my head, and admitted, "No, not really."

She playfully punched me in the rib, which not so playfully hurt like hell since I'd bruised it playing football a few weeks earlier, and we continued flirting and chatting well into the night.

The only moral of this story that I can find is that it is obviously best to do whatever possible, no matter how heinous, to distract a woman, well beyond your means, if you somehow forget or butcher her name.

Boring But Pleasant

As of today I'm officially a vagrant, and thoroughly, thoroughly pleased I must say. Concern about the move had be driving me to a tizzy lately, but now that I'm living out of a backpack (the one I'm taking to South America next month with Mr. Exnicios) and sleeping on a friend's floor I feel gooooooooood... at least until the next thing comes along for me to freak out about. That being said, I'm not too sure what that could be, since today I also paid the bill that had been so long overdue that a German arrest warrant had been issued for me (I didn't realize I hadn't paid a bill when I went to Iraq). Nope, for the most part, until the inevitable disaster hits me (as it always does) I'm just focusing on growing my hair out and looking forward to the 14 days when I can set foot on SC soil again.