Taming a Bitch and Beyond Ch. 01

Gloria Vajwellden didn't hail from Sweden, but her parents were both born in the mother country and left its frigid shores as progressive ideology began to firmly take hold. Their immigration paperwork easily cleared and the young couple adopted Boston as their new home. Mr. Vajwellden found a mid-level management position with Fidelity Investments, while his wife used her fine looks to help secure donations for the Cancer Fund of America. Long work hours, and an insistence each attend mass once a day, left little time for family life or its pleasures.

The couple had only one child. A daughter, the above named Gloria. She wasn't tossed in the air by her parents, tickled or snuggled lovingly. Instead, she was raised in a house of rules, perfect manners and frequent lectures on religious values—that is when she was home. At the sweet innocent age of nine, she was sent abroad to Radcliffe college where she spent the majority of the year.

Her catholic parents undoubtedly had a heavy strain of guilt running through their souls regarding their minimal actual parenting. At fifteen, Gloria's curly blonde hair and full bosom periodically caught the eyes of pupils, peers, priests and nuns. Naturally, this had nothing to do with Gloria's parents' decision to remove her from the famed English boarding school and enroll her at the local all-girls Fontbonne Academy. Each evening she now dinned and prayed with her mother and father, and in-between spent hours with her nose buried in texts. Her parents delighted in her love of religion and education. Neither realized the notions generated in pursuit of her dual loves would ultimately result in a violent collision.

Gloria was set to graduate, with high honors, and she cast out an armful of applications to colleges of every color and creed. Neither parent was appreciative, as they knew the good book read Liberty University was the only choice. A campus where she'd be found by a suitable man. For the first time ever, disagreement raised its curious eye in their blessed family and caused Gloria's eyes to cast westward.

So many options, so many beautiful places. Vancouver, Berkeley, Los Angeles, Seattle, San Lois Obispo and more. Gloria wanted a good school, but specifically she wanted to dab her delicate toes in the cooling riffs of the Pacific Ocean. Her parents didn't have a taste for discord, so offered up a concession-Loyola Marymount. A fine Jesuit college, rigorous in its academics and where faith-based immersion programs remained an option.

With fingers wrapped tightly around each other, and behind her back, Gloria accepted the truce offering. In her mind, the acceptance was limited to the LA area, but she failed to disclose this limitation to her parents. She'd been accepted at USC, UCLA, Loyola and UCSB. With each she received an offer of full financial support, and with each she was on a first name basis with the dean of admissions. In her, they saw a perfect student, an unblemished grade history and a young adult who'd already won several short story and poetry awards. She was a future student body poster child.

Two weeks of pouting set Gloria free. Her parents granted permission for her to tour the campus alone. After all, in just a few months she'd be headed out by herself to face the world as an adult. She graced them with beautiful pictures of Loyola's campus, and its sacred church. Nothing was mentioned of her other campus visits and on return she hid her sunburn well. She'd also made up her mind, and accepted the UCSB offer. The next few months, she carefully hid all mail that didn't mesh with her decision so her parents remained blissfully unaware.

In late August, her beloved mother and father sent her off with love, a solo hug each and a long list of directions. Once through security, the list and a banana peel procreated in the aft section of a lavatory trash can. Six weeks, and six days later, at 6 pm, Gracie's parents opened a letter from Loyola which contained a room deposit refund. Before this event, the couple had a few conversations and e-mail exchanges with their daughter. Despite their numbness to joy and excitement, even they perceived she was beyond delighted. They summoned their collective anger and promptly called their daughter.

The conversation was tense, brutally honest and so began decades of silence. Even the graduation announcement failed to allow for a sound of parental love or concern to egress from their self-created tomb. Unknown to them, their daughter embarked on a tour of discovery. Immersing herself in pursuit of higher education, growing to detest religion and appreciating her sexuality.

Her years of religious guilt were not so easily washed away despite Gloria's proclamations against the church. A few times she'd gone topless on the campus beaches-at night. She'd also discovered alcohol and that the marijuanas could be nice. Once or twice a year, as Gloria's guilt limited such indulgences. And boyfriends just didn't last long.

Early in her freshman year, Gloria had lost her virginity. Shortly afterwards, she'd broken up with the boyfriend/surfer. Every few months, she'd experimented with another round of sexual release, yet afterwards she felt dirty and unclean. Her guilt would build, and only seemed to fade when she put distance between herself and her playmate. She recognized a pattern and thought it might be different with a woman. She was incorrect.

And so her merry-go-round went, until graduation knocked her off. Gloria panicked about having to forge for herself so responded by sending out a flood of applications. Two months later, we were co-workers at a young start-up. She hired for her double major in biochemistry and marketing, while I'd been solicited for my math and computer skills. She didn't fit the image of a science person, and years of collegiate hockey had robbed me of my nerd label.

While we were co-workers, we did not get along. I would have been merrily pleased if she'd been fired the second day we worked together. Her almost perfect body and blonde curls would have carried her through the first day, but after that she would have been canned if I'd had any say. By day two, I'd seen her interact with several people. It was obvious she was judgmental and behaved as thought the world spun around her. I detested her lack of empathy.

I did not consider myself an angel, but was happy. Raised by a single mother who worked two jobs as a janitor and bartender to ensure her boys could eat, have a roof over their heads and play hockey. My Mom's dedication implanted within my noggin, at a young age, the value and joy of hard work. My first two years of college I took full advantage of my jock status, played with a platter of girls and enjoyed such joys. Then I'd met a gal that rattled me.

She was ebullient. Extremely confident and majoring in physics with NASA aspirations. Her body reminded me of a giant popsicle on a hot summer day that kept drawing one's tongue back for more and more licks. I'd watched her interact with numerous people around campus, yet never seen her with another guy or at any of the athletic events. I forced a bump introduction and it went well until I spilled my "news" of playing for the hockey team. She feigned an appointment and departed.

Her smile compelled me to get to know her. In the mornings, at the commons she'd bring in an armful of lattes for the servers and greeted each with a smile. More importantly, she treated them like real people. Well, like everyone else. Whether you were a professor or janitor, you got that same out of this world smile, a pleasant hello and it seemed like she knew all the details of the people she interacted with. Their origins, family and worries. She was an angel and this just pushed me to somehow, at least, become friends with her. Yes, her amazing eyes and tits didn't diminish my determination.

My dalliances with other ladies came to a sudden halt, and all too soon I felt like a stalker so then spent days in virtual isolation to lift the vibe. A few weeks of this and I was in hell. It wasn't long after that I realized I needed help. Fortunately, relief came unexpectedly. On a random occasion I caught site of her tacking something to a bulletin board. Once the area was clear I zoomed in for inspection. Shit! She was advertising as a math tutor.

I called her up that night, requesting help with my differential equations class. She agreed, and gave me the student discount rate of $30/hour. Ouch! There was a minor problem in that I wasn't taking such a class, as I'd tested out of it my freshman year. Math was ridiculously easy for me, more importantly fun. The semester I met Katie my math classes consisted of Lie Theory, Cryptography and Hilbert Spaces. Believe I also had an English class and was still trying to learn some Italian.

Our third tutoring session didn't go so well. Katie would pushed a different problem set at me and then guided me down the incorrect path. I played along, and held in my grin. Then the bubble burst.

"Enough of these games. Why did you lie to me and do you think I like working as an unknowing model?" Katie shouted out.

"What are you taking about?" I replied feebly.

"Look Mr. Skate so fast athlete. I'm not stupid. I've asked around about you, especially within the math department where I was trying to set up a meeting with your differential equations professor. That went well. When I gave them your name I start hearing things like possible prodigy, whiz kid and shit like that. So what the fuck?"

Oh, man she was livid, and I was in a corner about to be knocked out. So I took the easy road. I was honest. "I've had a crush on you for a bit. It's killing me. I tried to meet you and you blew me off because I'm a jock."

"No I didn't," Katie immediately replied.

"I've asked around about you too. You're amazing. I swear to the world you're an angel. Almost. You don't like athletes," I whispered out.

"I have nothing against athletes, they just don't belong in college. Go play hockey, basketball or ballet, I don't care. Just keep it separate from any claim that it is related to education," she shot back.

"For some people, that is their ticket to education. Without it there is no way they'd be able to afford a school like this," I retorted.

"You certainly don't need to play as a pay ride!"

"You're right. I have an academic scholarship and walked on. I love hockey, but several of the guys I play with aren't so lucky. They didn't go to private school, they didn't have tutors and athletics gives them a shot at a place like this. It's not like they are going to be playing professionally. Why are you judging us so harsh when everyone else you meet you treat like a real person?" I asked.

"I, I, I'm just not a sports fan," Katie answered.

"You don't have to be. I wasn't asking you to be one. I just wanted a chance to get to know you. You seemed pretty amazing to me. My Mom would have loved you. That's how I rate people, but she wouldn't have appreciated you judging a person by the way they work or use their body. Why don't you challenge yourself? Go hang-out with a few athletes. I think you'll be surprised. There are some assholes, but that is true with every group."

"They all think they're so special. They are just people."

"Exactly. So why don't you go meet the ladies' hockey team or the male cheerleaders? They are athletes. They work hard and are 'just people.'" I stated and began to gather my books and notebook. "I'm sorry. You are right. I did lie to you and that was wrong. I apologize. I let my emotions and hopes lift me up by my boot straps."

"You should never lie to a woman your trying to impress," Katie returned.

"Your right. Here is your thirty-bucks. I guess this will be our last tutoring session."

"Yes!" Then she passed a bit and took a deep breath and exhaled. "I'm sorry. I'm being a bitch right now." She then extended her hand for a shake. I looked at her with a puzzled face. "Go ahead, take it." As I grasped her soft fingers she added, "Hi, I'm Katie. Nice to meet you. Your kinda cute when you're a little bit pink and frustrated. Here's my e-mail." She then scribbled it out onto a yellow sticky.

"Why are you giving me your e-mail?"

"I think it would be good for us to start over. It probably won't go anywhere, but right now I'm ok if we e-mail for a bit and just see how it goes from there. Acceptable?"

"Sure," I answered as I grabbed the note and watched her walk away from our stall in the library.

A month after graduation, we were married. Small little party, in New Zealand, where we skied and surfed. It was us. And now, a few years down the road, I was working for a small little start-up looking/hoping to explode while she pursued her Ph.D in astrophysics at Berkeley. Yeah, my angel loves the heavens, and I her.

The company I worked for focused on a small team approach to projects. Through this approach, I was on four different teams, each of a different size and scope of application. Some projects were almost mini-projects with a tight delivery line of only a few months, while other placements were on long term projects with years used to define the deadline. Ms. Vajwellden was on two of my teams and those teams struggled.

She contaminated the process. Disregarded agreed upon approaches and pushed and rammed until others gave in or just walked away. It was not a "team approach," yet the owners kept her on. I would not give-in which resulted in blown-up battles often requiring ownership resolution. In my heart, I was convinced the little hot blonde was fucking the hell out of one or more of the owners, this appeared to me to be the only means which ensured her continued employment.

The teams we worked on together were different. The first was a smaller project. Developing software that would create a virtual model of playground equipment then test it for weaknesses and/or flaws using virtual kids. The program was meant to be a freebie to "donate" to real world testers to use beforehand and then compare our predictions with actual events. Essentially, it was a tool to obtain access to their data and use for other projects. The rumor floating about was the company wanted a vehicle testing model that worked and could be sold to manufacturers.

Additionally, Gloria and I were on a bio-encryption team. Its goal was to create a series of inter-looped biometric and algorithm programs that combined rDNA analysis with real time biometrics for security access. It involved swabbing the insides of a person's cheek, retinal analysis which not only scanned a person's iris, but bounced a portion of the beam back onto a sensor that relayed information to our company regarding the subjects stress, heart rate, blood pressure and several other markers that were analyzed. If a cleared individual was placed into a ransom category the access level would shift into artificially generated fields that mimicked the real data, but on a false basis. Essentially, even the user wouldn't know that data was incorrect. In addition, security would be alerted and given significant information about the breach.

The "playground" team was actually fun and meaningful. It gave me a great excuse to go out to various parks and interact with kids. They loved my broken down explanation of what I was doing and readily recognized its importance. The parents were more skeptical. No doubt, these type of generation gaps would always be around—just ask The Beatles. Gloria didn't seem to have much interest in sinking her fangs into this team, so it actually had some flow. Most of the other members also got a kick out of the work, and took an approach similar to mine.

The biometrics security team was on a completely different level. Gloria and I clashed frequently. Over everything. In addition, the work was designated with the company's highest classification level so other managers were cut-out and we reported directly to the owners. This helped as they became the arbitrators of the disputes between Gloria and I, and usually sided with me. It was an unexpected bonus. I think because the team reported directly to the owners all the members were motivated to produce. And we did. Two years ahead of our deadline, we had our first testing model. Six months later, we knew we had a winner and went ahead with beta testing. Our first testing involved using the owners as subjects. Two owners were randomly picked to be held under duress, while the other five would just be perusing whatever company information they liked that their high placed clearances. I was assigned to monitor the programs "deceit" mode operations. It would be tricky.

If operating correctly, the program "sensed" that the person who was given clearance was under duress then switch to a "deceit" mode which would mimic accessing the actual secure information, but change the data into harmless material. The intent was that the hacker would be knowledgeable, so ideally the person given access also wouldn't realize the information they were reviewing was artificial. My task was to monitor two screens. One showed what information the person was attempting to access and the other provided a view of the fake material being generated by the program. Ideally, I'd barely be able to tell the difference, but knew enough to identify the actual secure information.

My mark was Jon Rogers. He was a small older man, and one of the original founders. I'd chatted with him briefly at a few company events, but really knew very little about him, but he was one that seemed to switch his mind on projects frequently and with little explanation. The test involved placing the owners in separate locals around the city, and the two marked owners would be hijacked by terrorists who would demand they access various secure areas of the company's servers. The terrorists were to play the part and rough up the marks—we had to get their heart rate up with a variety of methods we'd approved, but which the owners were unaware and involved fake blood. We'd instructed the terrorists to claim they'd intercepted news of the beta testing and were using it to actually steal information so hopefully the marks would think they were actually being held hostage. Testing was key.

The first hour was uneventful. Both screens were identical and Mr. Rogers' company computer travels were quite vanilla. It almost seemed as though he was avoiding trying to access any sensitive areas. This was followed with fifteen minutes of no activity and then things rapidly changed. The computer flipped into the deceit mode, and reported Mr. Rogers' heart rate at being in the 150s and perspiration sensed. Either he was under stress or getting a blow job. I doubted it was the later.

The real screen was opening data on some of our most sensitive projects, and the deceit screen showed our program was working. In fact, it was changing the material beautifully. No, eloquently. It twisted code names, designs and data, but not just into a scramble, rather it all tied together and looked like real data. Maybe not physically possible results, but one would have to comb the data slowly before this was revealed. Then the real screen jumped to Mr. Rogers' company e-mail account and began going through this information. Again the real information was scrambled, and the output appeared logical. And then something caught my attention.

On the real screen, I noticed a reference to our team and an instruction on how to rule on a team dispute. The instruction was from a gmail account, and specific. Then the screen jumped elsewhere. My mind raced with this information. Shit, Rogers was a puppet. I couldn't control what other e-mails or files were being opened, but I did have my phone with me so pulled it out and began to video record the real screen. Every so often, I'd stop and start again so I had small manageable chunks that I'd then e-mail to my private e-mail. This continued for about thirty minutes and then the test was over.