Nuclear Ned Rants

 The Preganant Pause

 This is a prime example of why I don’t watch much TV.

It must have seemed like such a great idea during those late hour production meetings. Some junior executive suckup probably invested all his corner window office hopes on it. What we need, someone decided, is for all tv shows to have 97% more drama by drawing out a crucial moment to ridiculosity. But just like Communism, what must have seemed great on paper turns out to be the most nerve-frayingly annoying thing I think I’ve ever witnessed: the Pregnant Pause.

I saw it last night on the HGTV show “My House is Worth What?” The idea behind this show is that a real estate expert goes into people’s houses, does a quick assessment, then at the end tells the homeowner the current estimated market value of their home. So here is how the obviously staged revelation at the end goes:

Real Estate Expert: So would you like to know the value of your home?
Owner: Yes! Yes! Please tell me, O Fount of Real Estate Knowledge!!!
Real Estate Expert: The current market value of your home is… <voice trails off>
<10 second shot of Owner looking nervous>
<10 second shot of Owner’s wife looking nervous>
<10 second shot of Expert looking smug>
<10 second shot of Owner’s wife looking nervously at owner>
<10 second shot of Owner looking nervously at Expert>
<10 second shot of Expert raising his eyebrows knowingly>
<10 second shot of Owner’s dog nervously humping the cat>
<10 second shot of Owner’s wife running to the restroom with a nervous bladder>
<10 second shot of Owner’s girlfriend showing up at the wrong time>
<10 second shot of Owner praying fervently>
<10 second shot of Expert jotting down something important in his notebook>
<10 second shot of Owner’s wife returning from restroom, looking nervous>
<10 second shot of Owner clutching wife’s hand>
Real Estate Expert: Your house isn’t worth the toilet paper that’s stuck to your shoe!!! Thanks for playing, losers!!!

Stuff like this makes me think that 90% of all TV is specially designed for special-ed children.

Get off My Database You Stinking Kids!

I’m updating a large software application today with year-end updates. The application has two parts: a client/server app, and a web app. This app is very important; among other things, it stores our payroll and human resources data. If this app doesn’t work, people don’t get paychecks.

It is for this very reason that I have gone to great, painful lengths to make sure this upgrade goes as smoothly as possible. I installed it on a test server first, making sure I ironed out any wrinkles I found. I notified all users company-wide in a very clear, pointed email to stay off the system during the upgrade, and to reinforce this I shut down the web app from IIS. The only vulnerable spot is the 15 or so users who have access to the client app, but they are the elite users I can count on to follow directions, right?

So today I began running the upgrade and for a while things ran real smoothly. Then, out of the blue, the upgrade crashes, giving me an error that said something about a table being locked.

The drops of sweat immediately broke out on my forehead right next to all the enlarged pulsating veins, and my lip began to quiver.

I quickly ran sp_who on the database, and found my worst fear: Mr. Chuckles had logged in through the client app.

I could barely contain my primal, skull crushing rage as I turned a deep crimson and looked up his phone extension. What follows is an approximation of the conversation:

Me (semi-yelling): “WTF?!??!?? Didn’t you get the email??!!?!?!”

Mr. Chuckles (chuckling): “Huh? Oh, wait - yeah I got the email. I thought you meant everybody except for me.”

Me (gasping for breath): “!!?!??!?”

Mr. Chuckles (still chuckling, ignoring the ominous silence coming from my end): “So do you want me to get out or what?”

Me (furiously trying to reach through the phone line to choke the shit out of this cretin): “Get out and stay out until I give you the ‘all clear’, dumbass!!!!!!”

<sound of me slamming down the phone>

And users wonder why we hate them so.

Whereupon Nuclear Ned Bys a House and Stays an American Citizen

 Yesterday someone at the bank narrowly avoided a yelling exposition where afterwards an emergency dual bootectomy would have been necessary for them.

I keep making posts about how my wife and I bought our dream house, got the loan, blah blah blah - you’ve read all about it here before. Basically, approximately 45 days ago the house we are buying had been appraised and we signed the loan papers. At that point in time, the bank guy promised that everything would be in order for our closing on August 30th. He promised. Now maybe I’m just an exceptionally efficient paperwork filer, but 45 days seemed like a reasonable amount of time for even a lowly bank guy to wrap up any lingering issues that needed to be resolved.

About a week and a half ago, something happened at the bank. I suspect that the bank guy didn’t tell me because he correctly guessed that I would have been as unhappy as a eunuch with a ticket to the Playboy Mansion on International Group Sex Day.

The bank’s underwriter decided that the comps used for our house were unacceptable, and that new comps must be found at all costs or the loan would be suddenly un-approved, we would find ourselves without a house, and I would be forced to go on a murderous rampage with nothing more than my bare hands and what was within immediate reach (half a can of WD-40, a steno pad, and a slightly used penis pump - don’t ask). (NOTE: “Comps” are other houses in our locale that have sold recently that are similar to the one we bought; the bank uses them to make sure the price we are paying for our new house is reasonable.)

The problem (about which I was still in the dark) was compounded by the fact that the appraiser in charge of finding the comps was on vacation until (you guessed it) the day we were supposed to close. We got a call that our closing appointment needed to be bumped from 9am to 11am. I’m a guy who likes to stick to schedules even if fiery balls of poo are falling from the sky, an interdimensional rift has opened in my back yard spewing forth flesh-starved demons, and streets for once really are running red with the blood of the unbelievers. Upon first hearing the news of the delay, I said nothing into the phone receiver, but I could feel the blood vessels in my forehead preparing to burst. And my eye began to twitch uncontrollably. “Fine,” I said, “but damn the torpedoes, WE ARE CLOSING AT 11.” And I hung up.

Yesterday morning the phone calls started rolling in. You could almost sense some poor secretary cowering at the other end of the line: “We don’t know if we can keep our 11am appointment.” While my wife politely informed them that we would be there one way or the other, I spent some quality time examining maps of the area so I could choose our fastest escape route in the unforeseeable event that “necessary measures” had to be taken and I needed to take an extended vacation in Ecuador.

So we arrived at the the title company’s office half an hour early. We sat in our Jeep in the parking lot and scowled at everyone coming and going. We just sat there and stared, nothing more. People inside looked out at us and out of fear began drawing up their wills. And then the call finally came. Ten minutes before our appointment, the very relieved bank guy finally explained the whole situation, and said that they had found acceptable comps.

So now I own a new house, and I’m not on the run from the law. Yippee!

Nuclear Ned is a Bad Friend

So I just got back from climbing Mt. Rainier in Washington. I went with my buddy and training partner Steve (not his real name), a friend I’ve known for several years now. I’ll post an official “I just climbed Mt. Rainier” thread tomorrow when I have my pics, but I couldn’t wait to tell ATOT this little story.

We rented most of our equipment from Rainier Mountaineering, the company that was going to guide us up the mountain. As we got chatty with the guy at the equipment desk, we learned that we each needed an insulated mug for hot liquid foods that we would have at Camp Muir, the base camp for the climb. So Steve and I strolled over to the store and bought identical cheap plastic mugs with snap-on lids.

Fast forward to a couple of days later at Camp Muir. We had just climbed a gruelling 4.8 miles through snow to stay in a little plywood shack at 10,000 feet. Our guides melted some snow and brought hot water so we could make our dehydrated soups, drinks, and whatnot. They made a real big deal about rehydrating as much as possible, and encouraged us to drink up. So we did, and then we went to bed for our 2am climb appointment the next day.

Half an hour later, I had to pee worse than a puppy with two peters at a fire hydrant party.

So I had to completely gear up to go to the outhouse, which was on a nearby cliff. Mountain climbing, even for a short stroll to the outhouse, requires a whole lot of gear that is time consuming to don. Also, the shack we were in was tiny, and housed about 20 guys who were packed in on top of each other like sardines. One tiny noise, and the whole group would wake up. In spite of all that, to the outhouse I went.

Just another fifteen minutes later, I had to pee even worse than a pregnant woman at a Starbucks after consuming five decaf grandes.

I immediately decided that I had to use the big brain for something other than a pincushion. In other words, I was going to come up with an engineering solution so I didn’t have to go through the previous ordeal. After some thought, I decided that the cheap mug would fit nicely in my sleeping bag, my burning desire would be satisfied, and nobody would be the wiser. And so I peed. After a few minutes I peed some more. Soon, the mug was full to the brim, and I snapped on the lid completely relieved.

The next morning as the guides woke us up, I immediately grabbed my mug, suited up, went to the outhouse and dumped the mug’s contents. Then I went back to the shack and put the mug among my stuff, and I started getting ready for the climb.

A little while later, I noticed Steve was drinking some hot cider from his mug. Steve’s cider must have had something wrong with it, because he kept making this weird looking face of disgust. The odd thing was that my mug seemed to be missing. Oh, well… on to the climb!!!

Fast forward to a whole day later. The climb was complete, and we returned to the shack to pack up our stuff. While we were packing, Steve found his mug under his bed. His mug still had noodles in it from the night before.

He said “Oh, man… I’m sorry, I must have used your mug this morning.”

I wonder if he noticed the weird look on my face. I haven’t yet had the heart to tell him.

I <heart> Stupid People With Money

 My wife and I bought a new house, and our old one has been listed for about 4 weeks. It is a pretty nice little house that would make a great starter home for a young couple like we were when we bought it 9 years ago. We are asking $169,900, which for our area seems like a very fair price. Since we don’t close on the new house until Thursday, we are still living in the old one.

A few nights ago, “Susan” decided to drop by the old place and pay a visit with my wife. Susan is a girl about my wife’s age who my wife and I have known for many years. Susan has recently been married, and she and her husband are looking for a new home. She had set up an appointment with a realtor to see our house in a few days, but apparently just couldn’t wait any longer. When she began talking to my wife, she was obviously very excited about our property.

Now would be a good time to fill in a small detail about Susan: all her cylinders are firing, just not at the same time. She comes from a family of extremely intelligent people, and in her own way she has a modest share of some brainpower. However, her meager slice of common sense just isn’t tall enough to get on the big adult rides.

She asked my wife how much we would come off our asking price. My wife thought for a minute, then told her that since she was an old friend we would probably come down $9-10K, which would still net the amount we want.

Susan looked at her with a blank stare, blinked a couple of times, then said “Would you take $165K? Because that’s what my husband and I think we’re going to offer.”

My wife said something like “I think we can work something out.”

Chapter 3: And Thus, The Bees Finished Off Their Age-Old Nemesis, NuclearNed

 Disclaimer: This story is 1) true, and 2) too important to shorten. If your attention span can’t handle the story length, then feel free to read any of the other fine “what is your favorite movie” threads regularly hosted here.

Saturday I needed to move a small stack of firewood from one location and consolidate it with a larger stack of firewood that was closer to the house. It was a small job that should have only taken a few minutes, so during halftime of the Tennessee game I went outside and started the task.

The small stack was leaning against a rotten tree trunk that is kind of close to my garage. I gave the trunk a couple of hard kicks, just to see how rotten it was, then I proceeded stacking firewood into my wheelbarrow, having satisfied my momentary destructive urge.

Somewhere in the back of my mind I was dimly aware that something was buzzing annoyingly close to my head. My subconscious took note of the fact that it wasn’t a particularly friendly buzzing sound, but since I wasn’t in any immediate pain my brain didn’t assign it an elevated threat level. I gave the mystery beast a compulsory swat or two and went about my business.

I don’t know if the singular buzzing suddenly got a lot louder, or if a legion of additional buzzes decided to join the first, but suddenly lots of little alarms began going off in my head. I snapped my head around just in time to see yellowjackets pouring out of the rotten stump, and I started to run like hell when the first (and thankfully only) little suicide bomber nailed the inside of my right elbow, right in the softest, tenderest fleshy part.

Being the type who loves his revenge more than most, I simultaneously strolled and cursed my way into the garage, where I found my stash of chemical deterrents. Those little bastards were going to suffer and die, and happily, I was lucky to be the one to administer the burning poison-induced serving of whoopass. My smite instinct was kicked into such a high gear that I didn’t even notice the almost instant headace that was now throbbing, or the fact that my extremities (including, oddly enough, the entire region surrounding my pooper) were beginning to burn like crazy.

And so, with my long range bee spray I killed masses of them. When the bloodlust had subsided and the bees were lying in little twitching piles, I decided I might as well empty the wood from my wheelbarrow onto the big wood pile. My feet had turned purple and my heart was racing, but hey, doesn’t that always happen immediately after a vengence-induced killing spree?

I offloaded the wood, and took a few steps toward the house. For the first time, I began to acknowledge that something was horribly wrong. My head was spinning, my heart was beating out of my chest, I was broken out from head to toe, everything was a deep shade of crimson, and I felt like total crap. I stumbled into the house and told my wife to get me to the hospital immediately. I’ve never reacted at all to a bee sting before, but apparently the bees have perfected their assault so that my immune system now thinks it has to carpet-bomb the living poopy out of my entire body.

So while she zipped down the interstate at 90+ miles per hour, I called 911. The operator arranged for a deputy to meet us on the interstate and guide us at a high rate of speed to the hospital. Even though I felt like death had its bony hand on my shoulder, I was still able to appreciate the complete awesomeness of all that was transpiring (i.e. the high speed chase).

So we got to the hospital, where I got thoroughly drugged, poked, stabbed, and examined. My bee killing days are most likely over. I now have to carry this big stabby epinephrine thing on my person at all times - if I ever get stung again, I have to plunge it into my thigh (although it would have been 100% cooler if I could stick it in my chest, a la Pulp Fiction).

I guess the bees get the last laugh.

The Thermostat

 I’m at work. The thermostat is stuck halfway between “inferno” and “sun”. I’m ready to strip down to my boxers and shave my back - it’s that hot. I would estimate that 70% of the people on my floor are women, and its really cold and rainy outside. Coincidence? I think not.

Why can’t we all just get along?

EDIT: There is a thermometer in the cubicle next to mine. It’s reading 82.5. My fricking brain feels like it’s about to melt.

EDIT2: 83.5 now. The person in the cubicle with the thermometer just yelled it out for everyone to hear. This is ridiculous.

The Christmas Wish

 Friends,

I’m leaving on vacation tomorrow night, but before I did, I wanted to make sure I fulfilled my annual tradition to tell you my Christmas wish for each and every one of you.

If I had one wish that I could wish this holiday season, it would be that all the children to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace.

If I had two wishes I could make this holiday season, the first would be for all the children of the world to join hands and sing in the spirit of harmony and peace. And the second would be for 30 million dollars a month to be given to me, tax-free in a Swiss bank account.

You know, if I had three wishes I could make this holiday season, the first, of course, would be for all the children of the world to get together and sing, the second would be for the 30 million dollars every month to me, and the third would be for encompassing power over every living being in the entire universe.

And if I had four wishes that I could make this holiday season, the first would be the crap about the kids definitely, the second would be for the 30 million, the third would be for all the power, and the fourth would be to set aside one month each year to have an extended 31-day orgasm, to be brought out slowly by Rosanna Arquette and that model Paulina-somebody, I can’t think of her name. Of course my lovely wife can come too and she’s behind me one hundred percent here, I guarantee it.

Wait a minute, maybe the sex thing should be the first wish, so if I made that the first wish, because it could all go boom tomorrow, then what do you got, y’know? No, no, the kids, the kids singing would be great, that would be nice. But wait a minute, who am I kidding? They’re not going to be able to get all those kids together. I mean, the logistics of the thing is impossible, more trouble than it’s worth! So — we reorganize! Here we go. First, the sex thing. We go with that. Second, the money. No, we got with the power second, then the money. And then the kids. Oh wait, oh jeez, I forgot about revenge against my enemies! Okay, I need revenge against all my enemies, they should die like pigs in hell! That would be my fourth wish. And, of course, my fifth wish would be for all the children of the world to join hands and sing together in the spirit of harmony and peace.

Thank you everybody and Merry Christmas.

(Thanks, SM)

 The Swiss-Cheese Database

Long story - I’ll try to make it as short as possible.

Our Database Administrator wants to have complete and total control over the databases. She doesn’t want anybody making any changes to them, which I totally understand. After all, she’s the expert.

We have a dedicated test server on which is a test database for one of the software products I support. We just did a major upgrade of this software product. During the upgrade process we ran into some significant problems that I couldn’t fix. During this time, I got the vendor’s technical support to help out. They weren’t sure how to fix our problems either, so I would allow them to remote into our server. They spent many long hours playing with settings and playing the “lets try this to see if it works” game. Finally, they got things to work and we upgraded our production software successfully.

A few days ago, a request came from the user who “owns” this software to refresh the test database. I did, and some of the old problems cropped up again. I messed around with it for a couple of days, but to no avail. Finally, I restored from backup the entire test server (which has only my software on it, and nothing else). The problem was solved.

A little while later, I started getting emails from Mary asking why the server was down for a while. After I explained the situation, I got a long bitchy email from her saying that I needed to leave the servers alone. She made the implication that since I’m a domain admin I was just changing any and all servers as I saw fit - which isn’t true - I changed just my test server and would never think of even touching a production server.

So in order to keep the peace I sent an apologetic email back to her. Granted, I should have told her what I was doing. Also, she had been playing around with setting up some jobs on the test server; she probably lost that work, which is my fault.

But here is my case: she and I both had agreed that the test server was suspect because we don’t know what the vendor had done to it; if the test server is to be of any value to us, it needs to 1) work, and 2) be as close to the production environment as possible. Also, it’s a freakin’ test server - she shouldn’t be storing important work there, because the environment is open to anybody (me, users, other IT people) who wants to tinker on it (i.e. I don’t think you should store important work in an open test environment).

Right now I’m feeling both guilty and a little angry. Admittedly, I screwed up. I also think she overreacted and overstepped her bounds.

Automated Redneck Repelling Machine

 I wonder how much it would cost to install an automated machine gun nest on my land?

Recently I spent a considerable amount of money buying the combination of house and wooded land that I consider to be Heaven on earth. I don’t want people around for the simple reason that if a man gets the itch, he ought to be able to saw down trees naked on his own land without having to wonder if Strange Neighbor Bob is taping the whole affair while chopping his own wood. My property is almost completely secluded, and other than one remote neighbor that we never see we are completely by ourselves…

…until hunting season.

Now I can understand if people might think our road is public access; it looks just like any other county road. The fact remains that I own 100% of the road, it is completely private, and there is nobody I want on it other than Santa Claus and my own invited guests. It is for that very reason that I posted on both sides of the road’s entrance highly visible signs: “Private Road - Enter by Invitation Only.”

I guess reading isn’t a highly prized skill among the local hunters. I may have to shoot a couple of them, hang their carcasses, and underline the words on my signs with their steamy fresh entrails just to add some emphasis. I was walking out of my woods Saturday as one of them was driving up my road. As I made an angry bee-line towards him, he gave me a friendly wave, then immediately did a u-turn into my grass and got the Hell out of there. He must have correctly guessed that if I had reached his truck in time, I wasn’t going to whisper pretty little love words in his ear.

He wasn’t the first, and I doubt that he will be the last. I don’t want my woods full of bumbletards shooting everything that moves, including me, my wife, my dog, my house, my vehicles, and especially my wildlife. If for no other reason, these self-proclaimed “nature lovers” always leave behind their cigarette butts, beer cans, and they tend to burn down everything within reach. If they want, they can feel free to go to any of the local public forests and unload on each other with both my blessing and encouragement. Heck, I might even go take a few potshots at them just to vent a little steam.

I wonder if roaming packs of trained attack wolves might keep them out?

The Wife, The Pictures, The..Need for Flowers

 My wife decided to hang framed pictures today. Normally, this sort of thing falls into the “man work” category in our household, but last night she was so enthusiastic about the project I decided to humor her and let her do it.

She hung two pictures, one on each side of our fireplace.

When I came home for lunch today, she asked me how they looked. We’ve been married several years now, and every now and again she tries her hand at this sort of thing, so I knew she wasn’t prepared for the blunt honest truth. In actuality, one was higher than the other, and neither one was centered in their respective places - both were off to the side by as much as 4 or 5 inches.

But she was beaming with pride. She is the love of my life, and when she looks at me, I simply melt. Her beautiful face was radiant, hoping to hear those most cherished words that I could possibly utter: “good job.” Inwardly, I decided that I would fix them tonight before she got home, and I would be enthusiastic about her work without sounding fake.

“They look, uh…, really good!”

Damn. I had just left work, and I hadn’t noticed that my brain was still stuck on “stupid.” “Uh” is such a tiny little involuntary sound for a person to make. Maybe she didn’t hear it? Maybe she thought I was clearing my throat? Maybe I could loudly fart and quickly change the subject with the slightly less offensive faux pas?

No such luck. My little pause might as well have been every secret thought I had regarding the pictures loudly broadcast on national TV with bright flashing lights during halftime of the Super Bowl.

Bleh.

Made Your bed? Sleep in it.

Last night my wife was discussing our 2008 vacation plans with one of her good friends. Soon it became obvious to my wife that her friend was very jealous of the lifestyle that we lead, and she started throwing around statements about how rich we are, how her life sucks, how she would be able to do so much more if she didn’t have kids, etc. etc. blah blah blah.

Her friend is wrong in one large way: we aren’t anywhere near rich. As a matter of fact, I know how much my wife’s friend and her husband make (even though our income is a mystery to them). Basically, their family’s income is on a par with ours.

Here is the difference: they chose to have a kid; they chose to have massive credit card debt; they chose to have every pay movie channel known to man; they both chose to drop out of college; they chose to practice undisciplined spending in every aspect of their lives. Basically, their paychecks are spent before they get them.

On the other hand, my wife and I don’t have kids; we have only monthly revolving credit card debt; we don’t buy superfluous crap we don’t need; we pushed our ways through college into good jobs, and we are very very careful with our spending.

It drives me crazy when people gripe about their condition when they chose to be there. Kids are expensive? I guess you should have thought about that before you decided to have one. Don’t have enough cash to ever go on vacation? I guess you shouldn’t have bought every DVD ever made then. You don’t have any retirement saved up? Maybe you should have gotten the tv you could afford, instead of buying the 107″ Ubertron with 25.9 THX sound.

Don’t gripe at me because you’ve made your life suck.

Family Politics: The IT Rant

 Friday night I came home from work wanting to do nothing more than my usuals - go to the gym, walk the dog, grab a bite to eat, then watch a movie from my favorite chair. I got through the first two activities without a hitch, but as soon as I got home, my father-in-law called my wife on her cell - more on that in a minute.

Like all IT guys, I’ve gone through that phase early in my career where everyone I’ve ever known - family, friends, extremely distant acquaintances - wanted me to fix their computers for free. Years ago I came up with a standard answer for everyone who asks: that I would be glad to fix anyone’s computer for $75 an hour, 1 hour minimum. The calls dried up, I lost a couple of loser friends I didn’t like anyway, and I thought the problem was solved for good. However, I didn’t ever foresee that one of the leeches would grow a brain and attack me from a angle where I am much softer and extremely exposed and vulnerable.

One of my father-in-law’s buddies knows that I am an IT guy. He called my father-in-law up and asked him to get me to fix his pc. My father-in-law is an old man who wanted to be a good guy, so he told his friend that I would call him right back without asking me first. When my wife took the call, she made her dad understand that I wasn’t going to be happy about it. He got a little defensive and asked her to get me to do it as a personal favor for him. She then hung up and related the whole thing to me. A little pressurized steam erupted from my ears. This put me in a difficult position: on one hand, I was absolutely opposed to giving out free work, especially to someone I don’t even know. On the other hand, I hate to turn down my father-in-law, a guy who I genuinely like, partly because he has been real generous lately (buying furniture for our new house, etc.) I would hate to seem like an ingrate to him.

So I sucked it up and called my father-in-law’s buddy. I was polite. I was cordial. I was professional. I wasn’t able to tell the cheap bastard over the phone how to fix his pc, and I wasn’t feeling generous enough to volunteer a house call. I told my wife to not make a big deal over it with her dad, unless this starts to become a recurring thing with him.

Family politics suck.

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