This is going to be one for the record books...

So it's 9:30 on a Saturday morning, and I can already tell that this is going to be one of those truly memorable and most likley, miserable days.

First off, it's 9:30 and I'm not only awake, but out of bed and posting an entry on my blog, which I ultimately think is not the best use of my time or energy. I'm a bit of a "numbers guy" (like my boss), and while I am known for over-indulgence and suprefluous action, I like to rationalize my wasteful activities by fooling myself that there is some redemptive aspect which will validate my poor choices. But so be it. I'm going to give this thing a fair shake and see what comes of it.

So yeah, I'm up early on a day off. After what proved to be a rather wierd, awkward, and slightly uncomfortable evening with this woman I've recently started seeing (dare we use the word "dating"?), I had to get up bright and early to take my car in to the shop for service. And it's not just your typical oil change and tire rotation we're talking here. No sir. No, we're taking my less than impressive, typically utilitarian and innocuous compact car (read: Honda) back into the neighborhood grease monkeys yet again. For an issue that has been plaguing me for over a year now.

So I'm pissed off because I know this is going to cost me some real coin, but mostly I'm pissed because, in my opinion, after three visits for the same problem in about a year, I think this issue should be resolved. I mean, this IS THEIR FUCKING JOB, right? In my line of work, you do NOT get three chances to NOT solve a problem for a client. You get one, maybe two, if the oversight isn't too friggin' egregious. Then it's a toss-up between losing the client and getting a serious browbeating from the managing partner, or better yet, a malpractic claim and possible termination of employment. Immediate, and without a severance package. Luckily, I've got one of those bosses that doesn't hastily jump to conclusions or act out of emotion. But I can't say that for the rest of my colleagues. So, I have very little tolerance for ineptitude. Willful ignorance, incompetence and apathy are three of the most disgusting and rancorous attributes in my fellow human kind, and I've got to tell you, friends and neighbors. I am fucking surrounded by it, and I can't stand it.

So, I drag my ass (and my pesky car) to the shop at the appointed early morning hour, and I engage in yet another customer service encounter that further degrades my trust in this particular service facility. I walk in and there's a new "counter person", who happens to be a very sexy young woman of Asian/Pacific Islander decent. Now I'm always up for hot chicks, but I'm not real impressed with this young thing's ability to listen and respond appropriately. You see, I've been going to the same place for car service for well over 6 years. I always call to make an appointment and discuss the issue at hand. I always arrive on time. I am diligent taking my car in for regular maintenance. These people have a file with my history. So why is it that when I go in today, I have to explain, once again, the recurrent issue that I am in for. And when she has to ask me a question, which I have ALREADY ANSWERED NOT 20 SECONDS PRIOR, I come very close to losing my cool. However, realizing that this will not a) solve the car problem, b) she's probably fairly new to the job/industry, and c) my patience is already running out, I chose to refrain from unloading a modest dose of vitriol and attitude, and make haste my departure. You see, I know I'm going to have to deal with someone who has more authority and discretion when they make the "good news/bad news" call. I think I'll just save that pent up aggression for a more appropriate time.

Upon returning to domicile, I begin the work for the day which I have laid out for myself. Namely laundry and a stack of shit I brought home from The Ranch. Alright, I've sorted out the clothes into appropriate categories and have those machines a-humming, when I log on to the Ranch's network. Lo, and behold, but what should I find sitting in my inbox, but a notice from a national testing agency with the results of a VERY IMPROTANT EXAMINATION that I took a few weeks ago. Now mind you, this is the second time I have taken this exam, and obviously the results were not sufficient for my needs a year ago. So therefore, I subjected myself to its rigors once again. Well, well, well. Surprise, surprise! I did not expect to have the scores back quite so soon. They weren't due until the 25th, and here it is, the 22nd.

A little backstory: This exam, this significant bane to my current personal and professional exisitence, this monkey on my back that has more power than the finest China White in all the shooting galleries of Seattle, New York and San Fransisco combined, has me wrapped up like a pretzel worse than TomKat. To me, it's the gateway to a bigger and better life. And a daunting hurdle that must be overcome before I can continue my persoanl evolution into that which I desire for myself.

In other words, it's kind of important to me.

I realize that this is mostly a matter of my own personal hang ups and I shouldn't invest so much, emotionally, into a standardized test. A test, which once taken (and adequate results acheived, of course), has little to no meaning for the rest of eternity. It's simply a gateway. A test for test's sake. And that, friends and neighbors, burns my ass to no end.

So, with some trepidation, I move the mouse and place my cursor over the emblazoned email title which informs me that my "Result Are In". Upon clicking, I look upon the information ensconced within the electronic missive with the eager anticipation of a 14 year old who gets his first real live look at a woman's Most Holy of Holies; and the dread of Galileo brought before the Spanish Inquisition. And what do I see?

152.

152? Wha- (the fuck?)

152!! Christ on a cross.

You mean, I waited a full year, subjected myself to a "prep" class taught by some twit who is 7 years younger than I, who doesn't seem able to respond to even the most direct questioning reagrding the material that she is supposed to be teaching. At a modest $700 price tag. Not to mention the hefty speeding ticket I got on the way to the airport to get back to Seattle to take the damn test. Or the fact that, be it right or wrong, in my mind's eye, this test will set the tone for the next 3-5 years of my petty, insignificant existence.

And for what? 1 point. 1 measly fucking point increase from last year's score. In other words, kids, all that effort, time, energy, worry and money. All for ONE FUCKING POINT!!!!

Fuck.

Or as my buddy Rob likes to mock: "god DAMmit!"

So yeah, it's going to be one of those days.... And I won't even get into the "good news/bad news" call I got from the head grease monkey while typing this rant. Suffice to say, the gentleman had NO IDEA what he was walking into when he picked up that phone.

So, with that. Let the drinking begin. And by the way, where DID I put my shotgun...?