Due Diligence - Amanda Ramrod

Hi, y’all. I’m a friend of Roscoe. I knew him way back when. We won’t go into that. Well, not right now. Anyway, he said I could post out here so, from time to time, you’ll see a little blurb, flash or story about my life. Given the, ah, position (well, several positions) I occupy I really can't risk my own blog.


My name’s Amanda Ramrod. A lot of people, people that don’t really know me, call me Amanda or Ms Ramrod. Of course, as you can imagine, Ms Ramrod garners its fair share of snickers around the corporate office. I don’t really care, but you don’t know that, because you don’t really know me. Yet.

I’m thirty-four-years old, look twenty-four, and flirt like a sixteen-year old on Redbull. My only boyfriend used to call me Hotrod. He married the head cheerleader (what a cliché). I was never sure if head or cheerleader most described her particular talents. That’s when I stopped having boyfriends.

Now a days, my girlfriends around the water cooler, call me Ramjet. They say I’m like a stealth bomber swooping in to drop a four thousand pounder on some unsuspecting target.

No, I haven’t married. Yet. I’m sure it will happen. And when it does, it will happen on my terms.

You might say I’m shopping around. Well, you can say whatever you want. But let me be perfectly honest, here. I like sex. I mean, I really like it. Of course, I don’t believe I’ve cornered the market on that one. Probably one of the best kept secrets on planet Venus is that women like sex. Just as much, just as often, and sometimes, just as hard as the Martians do.

I’m not about to fall in the, ‘I love you, too,’ trap. You know the one. The one where we’re always saying little things like, ‘I love you, honey,’ just to get a response out of him. And then it always comes with that word attached. The, ‘too,’ word. Like, oh, right, yeah, I hear ya, me too.

And, of course, then we have to practically beg for it. I mean, what’s that all about? What happened to the bionic man? The one with a steel rod implanted between his thighs? The one that could punch holes quicker and deeper than Exxon (and make as big a mess, I might add). The one who’s hands did more exploration than National Geographic?

So it was right out of a liberal arts college (I really don’t want to say which one. Reputations must be protected here) with a BA in communications, on one of those recruitment Saturday’s that I found my niche, the peg for my round hole, you might say.

No! Don’t be silly, not a guy! I mean, why settle for a hotdog, when you can own the hotdog stand? I found a Fortune 500 corporate head (no, not that kind of head, that’s water cooler jargon for headquarters) with offices around the world, a nice location in midtown Manhattan, a very nice health plan, and lots and lots of hotdogs.

I was a good student. Well, not a 4.0, but I believe a 3.9 still falls on the good side of the scale. One thing I learned in college was, ‘take notes.’ So I did. And, thanks to that, this is my story. Names have been changed, adjectives multiplied and adverbs exaggerated.

I’ll start at recruitment day and, well, work (because I did work for it) my way all the way to the top. Where you’ll find me most days flogging away with the best of the corporate Dicks trying to meat a deadline. No, those weren’t Freudian slips.

... That's it for today. I have a board meeting to, ah, how can I put this delicately - prepare for. This will be a serial post so come (and I hope you do) on back now, ya here? Well, until next time. AR