I look forward to the day my zits will no longer be visible, because the deep wrinkles on my face obscure any sort of Infected Pore Sighting By Overly Zealous Coworkers.

It will be a glorious occasion when I am allowed, nay, expected to mash my food into a giant pile and eat it undisturbed with a fork.

My hope of aging lies in the event wherein I get to park in the giant parking spots, large enough to house the Democratic Convention, in front of Wal-Mart.

I will not despair my age when I am allowed to drive a huge refrigerator car down the middle of the road at whatever speed I so desire. All the while glamming it up in huge sunglasses, sweats and my freshly permed hair.

I anticipate the year wherein I no longer have to buy expensive perfume since I have the distinct odor of those over the age of bathing.


I love old people. Really. REALLY TRULY.

Since The Blog Doctor has healed my template, I shall now say all the lovely things that were supposed to be said on Thanksgiving, all the warm fuzzy thoughts that make the world go round. I cannot, however, pretend all is simply peachy and paint generally glorious pictures, I must be perfectly and pointedly honest. As I have been told is my signature style.

This Thanksgiving I am thankful (or trying to be) for:

The Dogs. I used to hate them, but they are becoming quite nice. They cuddle at your feet, eat your nasty food scraps and bark when people drive in the driveway. Drawbacks: They have silent deadly farts that cause you to glare frozenly at your dinner guests, hoping it was the dogs, but inwardly knowing IT WAS THE GUESTS.

Joy. Supposedly I used to hate her too. Actually, I remember quite well when I hated her, and vice versa. Joy always manages to make me laugh, even if it means singing in the shower, singing loudly off-key while putting on her makeup OR SINGING WHILE I AM TRYING TO GO TO SLEEP.
Drawbacks: See the dogs drawbacks. Just kidding. See the bit about singing while I am trying to sleep.

Laura. Laura is proverbial curl to the feather. She is quirky, creative and always gives everything extra sparkle. She helps me see the bright side of things while encouraging my wild ideas, and just plain laughs at my stupid ones.
Drawbacks: There are only so many silver linings TO ONE FREAKING CLOUD.

Fredd: Fredd cracks me up. He is so... Fredd. Truly he is indescribable. But, he does try to be thoughtful and caring when he thinks of it. Which is for the most part. He demonstrates a keen talent for quickly putting me in my place.
Drawbacks: You can only be beheaded with a nerf gun so many times before it begins to lose it's luster.

Zach: I have a great appreciation for anyone who lets me tickle them, loudly shout "NAKED TURTLE DANCE" and let me ruffle his hair violently.
Drawbacks: I have never more personally wanted to assasinate Adam Sandler. He should not be allowed to act any longer.

Teresa: Anyone who can introduce Dad to one of her dearest friends, have him make boob jokes the entire time and manage to keep a sane level of decorum gets my deepest kudo's. She has tried so very hard to make our family, a family. And is doing an amazing job.
Drawbacks: Your just supposed to KNOW you don't tell Dad about the suspended license. It's called Mother's Intuition.

Dad: Ah Dad! Where do we even begin? I must say, Dad has mellowed quite a bit in his old age, but having a role model for the balance of insanity and fearless rebellion has always inspired me to be the odd one. Forget about beating to your own drum! Tat to your own pattern and who says you need drums? Just bellow, dammit!
Drawbacks: Even hippos get tired of bellowing.


Some of these are obviously a touch toungue-in-cheek and I only say this because if I didn't, my family might take me seriously AND THAT IS VERY, VERY SCARY. Even more scary than seeing Naked As A Jaybird and The Booty Dance. (You never want to know, trust me.)

I am deeply grateful for allot of things. Of course the generic friends, family, etc. But I am profoundly grateful for the ability to speak my mind, to live in a free country, to wake up every morning with a different plan to save the world, to have a family that loves me even when I have zits the size of small mountains, friends that actually talk to me and even CLEAN UNDERWEAR.

Happy late Thanksgiving everyone.

The problem with working quickly, is that it leaves nothing for you to do later. So here I sit, quavering between the choice of honing a mean game of Internet Hearts, or curling up under my desk for a nap.

Either way, I won't be missed.

I must say, this business of being in charge of payroll, while lording over the minions and telling eveyone what to do, is quite underrated, overdue and enjoyable.

Especially the bit where I get to tell The Girl Who Once Stole My Job But Had To Give It Back Again TO GO DO ALL MY FILING!

Life is fair, after all.

My feet are allergic to ugly shoes. My feet cannot be shod with anything attached to something lower than a three inch heel. I do not enjoy having my feet clad in skinny elastic straps, tacky rhinestones or such accessories that look like THEY CAME FROM PAYLESS.

Also, DO NOT MAKE ME PAY FOR UGLY SHOES I WILL NEVER WEAR AGAIN AND CANNOT RETURN.

Please feel for me. Feel the depths of heartache I will have to suffer in wearing shoes that look like they have waltzed off the pages of a Wal-Mart sale flyer. Not only is it beneath me, it is beyond my scope of understanding.

It. Is. Impossible.

It is my personal quest and endevour to earn a free iPod. This works, really, I know people who have actually done this. Just click on this link and sign up for something... like the free credit card. Everyone can use another credit card, right?

http://www.freeiPods.com/?r=12463061

You will be very loved by Sarah if you do this.

This is the second weekend in a row that the rightful crown has been robbed from Joy. This time, we were not only robbed, but it was blatent. The girl who stole her crown from her was fat, ugly and had this annoying factor that was simply too high to ignore.

Next time I am taking my billy club to beat the uglies off.

Many thanks to The Blog Doctor who has fixed my wretched and rebellious blog so I can once again communicate with the masses.

My Thanksgiving was dissappointingly uneventful, we ate lots of turkey, had a chick-flick marathon, slept allot and were general bumps on lumps. But the aforesaid occupation is highly underrated.

There is much to be thankful for this thanksgiving, but most interestingly is looking back a year ago and seeing how much I have progressed. Now that is something to for which anyone, especially those who lived with me, can say thanks for over their stovetop stuffing.

So, eat turkey sandwiches and say thanks.

There is something delightful and sweet about having the Twitch Who I Work With bring in a lovely bouquet of flowers that was delivered to me accompanied with the comments of "Why do I never get flowers? I am talking to FIVE GUYS and I never get flowers..."

Cry me a bloody river.

Again, will it work?

This is a test post by the blog doctor.

As you all know, my quest for a ideal, fitting, likeable and challenging career, is constantly underway. Though, I find myself returning, with fascination to anything medically related. Maybe it is the influence of my mother, maybe it is knowing the way a complicated form as a human body work, maybe it is simply the thought of something constantly challening me.

In any event, this solves nothing, besides the fact anything related to that is quite expensive.


But it has left me thinking: military?

Keep a list of every mistake I have made since moving to payroll and call the Vice President and tell her.

How To Delight Me: Tell me to start my own list of every mistake they have made and I have fixed without saying anything. Also, tell them to shove it where the sun does not shine.

Politely of course.

I am developing an extreme dislike for people with frizzy hair, fat butts and a penachent for nit-picking. I have also discovered that it doesn't matter how hard you try to please people, they will still hate you. And today's life lesson has been, overacheiving gets you nowhere.

Be happy, be average, just quit trying.

Last night, I spent the evening with a few people that made me truely grateful for my sisters and their intrinsic classiness. There is much to be said for people who tip 15%, say "thank you" and are generally nice people.

These few people I was with, decided they wanted Dunkin Donut's coffee (only Lord knows why, since the stuff tastes like pond scum.) So, instead of politely placing their order, they had to go on this whole harrange of how their order was messed up this morning and they couldn't just drink plain cappicino... It was a quite long and fearsome tale. By the time they finished, the poor employee did not know what was up and what was down.

And then, at the hair salon... suffice to say, the people I was with did not understand the principles of tipping, being a good customer, or generally NOT BEING A PAIN IN THE ASS.

Moral of the story: Be nice or Sarah will write about you on her blog.

This is just a little song of thanks, to the god's above, who make money rain from the sky, coins grow on trees and supervisor's decide that you need a raise without you asking.

Thank Ye.

I have recently purposed to myself that I would no longer moan on and on about being fat on my blog. That topic is easily exhausted in the minds of readers, I am sure. And it is actually quite annoying to read about later.

But, like any true female, I cannot keep my mouth shut, nor fingers still regarding this tasty little subject. Actually, the very thought of the logistics of cellulite is quite disgusting. Think long and hard abou that next time you bite into your cheesecake. If you have ever seen actual fat or cellulite, you know exactly of what I am speaking.

Anyway, my whole point of this post is to say, I am now the fattest member of our family. MY MOTHER wears smaller clothes than I. No longer is it "Yo' Mama" jokes, it's "Yo' Sistah" jokes.

Someone save me from the hellish ordeal of explaining no, I am not pregnant.

I do not know why, but today seems to be the day of childhood reflection. I remember being thirteen and thinking that I would want to be getting married at this age. Yes, the proposal's are coming left and right, but it is rather amusing to me. Not intriguing. Just like the novelty of shaving your legs. Yup. It wears off pretty quick.

Maybe there is a little TOO much goodwill floating around, or too much grain alcohol, or a little of both. It isn't even after thanksgiving yet and I have gotten my second Christmas proposal. I know this sounds terribly callous, and to the gentlemen that are reading this, they must be thinking I am a rabid man eater. Man eater, yes. Rabid, no.

Really, I am not. And please don't think me cruel, but there is something horribly un-romantic about being called up, with a slightly drunked sound to the person's voice, declaring loudly that they WILL marry you.

Make me. I dare you.

When I was younger and would get very, very mad (note: this only happens when I am very mad) I would seek attention by getting quiet. Not just the normal pouting and sulking, but a very strange and uncharcteristic quietness. This was a guarentee for attention, it was so highly unusual, that they were sure I was going to emminently die of the black fungus plague.

Yes, I was a precocious child.

Even now when I get quiet, it normally means I am quite upset or have had the worst of days. Today, everyone is peering at me quite oddly simply because I am quiet for a change. I do realize this is quite an unusual phenominon, but THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ME. When you have asked me this question five times and I continue to give the same answer, that indicates that I am telling the truth. Dammit.

There are times (believe it or not) when I just want to be QUIET! STOP MAKING ME SHOUT!

I would like to announce, very excitedly I might add, that I have managed to accquire tickets to the Army/Navy game, which happens to be a mere two weeks away. Courtesy of Regan.

Joy and I are going to get the chance to have a blast and as usual, Joy will generally be drooled over. I get to play my favorite role, the fearless bodyguard.

So, if you see us, DO NOT APPROACH WITHIN FIFTEEN FEET IF YOU FEAR MY SPIKE HEELS. To a football game, yes.

I don't know if you have seen Starsky & Hutch, but please insert Ben Stiller saying "We was robbed." It perfectly expresses the sentiments of last night. Joy did a fantastic job and they should have given her extra points for her obnoxious cheering section.

In other news, well, there is no other news.

Come to her pageant next week, you can join us in our obnoxiousness.

Because, I sitting here listening to my most favorite song which I just bought off iTunes. But, first bought it in Spanish. Er, I was increasing my, er, horizens.


Yes Joy, I now owe you two dollars. But I know your glad I bought it. Just say it.

I know, with my terribly deep posts as of late, you are expecting me to spout into the inner desire to excel, blah, blah, blah.

Or not.

The cost of which I am speaking, is that of the fact I am young and niave and merrily screwing up payroll, for which I will have to pay my first born child. The cost of forgetting to mail people's checks, I will have to give a lifetime supply of cookies. The cost of reversing check numbers, back rubs for as long as I work here. The cost of not being quite as perfect as they thought I was, bearing someone a grandchild.

This letting people down thing is rather--well--costly.


Disclaimer: I never said I was perfect, they merely thought so. I am simply being their King Saul, letting them find out what they thought was so great, isn't so great. What a nice change to be on the other end of the spectrum.

I want to bawl.

Flowing rivers of tears, blubbering like a baby, kicking my heels against the floor, beating my fists and generally feeling the overwhelming relief of not being able to cry a spot more.

I want to know that ever inch of mascara was washed away, that my tear ducts may remain dry for another six months and that I have demonstrated every juvenile action I know, save mooning the office and publicly ripping off my clothes.

I do believe the adult version of a pacifier is chocolate.

Damned Hershey's.

After posting such a thing on beauty, I feel rather foolish to say this, but I cannot resist.

Last night, my little brother informed me that my fan club is back and growing. But even more popular, is the fan club for my boobs. Yes, you read it correctly. I was just as horrified and aghast when I heard. In fact, in inspired some serious soul searching and gazing into the mirror to see if my boobs were as large as purported. Bottom line: I say no, everyone else says yes.

What can I say? I am so popular, I have to have more than one fan club. Someone save me from this hellish ordeal.

A while ago, I talked about the inner burning desire to always do something bigger. Well, the inner demons are screaming again.

I am kidding people.

My desire to learn and achieve has been temporarily mollified by the fact that I moved to payroll, something new, something bigger, something challenging, for the time being. But what about in a month and a half when I have it all down pat and am no longer learning, what then? I am waffling between describing myself as a precocious child, terribly impatient or just down right immature. I would like to think of my quick learning curve and constant desire to learn something new as a sign of intelligence, but I am dreadfully afraid it is a sign of childishness.

Yesterday, I mentioned to Joy this whole idea, to which she replied "it is a part of growing up." Dammit. I hate it when people say that. So annoying. But she meant it nicely, so I will forgive her. Quick digression there. Do I have to settle for that? Do I have to settle for something that doesn't challenge me? What can I do that will stretch me and helo me become a better person, professionally and personally?

Help me people. I am drowning.

Sometimes, I do not understand even myself as a girl. Granted, I will be the first to admit girls are some of the most annoying, confusing and contradicting creatures as a whole, but there are certain innate feminine qualities about myself that confuse me.

Take for instance, the pursuit of beauty and being beautiful. Every woman wants to be considered beautiful, not just by one, but all. It is the actual wanting of beauty, or the acceptance of many? Or just the simple desire to be cherished?

What is interesting is that many women, myself included, over look the fact that true beauty is what matters. And it is the pursuit of outer beauty that leads to being empty, hollow and lonely. You alienate yourself from others and become the anthithesis of what you started out to be.

Just like anything taken to the extreme, it comes full circle and defeats what it set out to accomplish. Where do you balance the fine line? And why, is the never ending question in my mind, are some people more beautiful than others?

Oh to settle and be mediocre!

No, Laura has not pleased us all and produced a child. Nor has Joy. Or Fred for that matter.

I am writing about the addtions to my family of food that I will and love to eat. I am not a picky eater, but occasionally I come across bizarre foods that I love. Twizzlers and Bugles were previously discussed.

Triscuits, I have always loved. But their rosemary and olive oil flavor is quite good! Sounds vile. But very yummy. Mum, I confess, it is I who took the entire box to work, to eat over the course of two days, for my lunch.

Babe Ruth candy bars. I have always thought they sounded odd, but they too are quite good. And I don't even normally like peanuts. Try one!

I wonder how they would taste together...

Just to clarify, I did not flash the world when I slid down the banister.

What was so embarassing to Laura is the fact that I was sliding down the banister, fell off and bumped loudly and painfully down the stairs. What can I say? I have this special gift of easily being able to embarass Laura.

I think I need to be featured on the Specially Gifted and Talented Show.


And I DID NOT FLASH ANYONE! Jeez. Who would mind seeing my cute butt anyway. Hmm.

Lots of people.

I love having sisters sometimes, they can vex and annoy you, but there is nothing in the world like shopping with like-minded sisters.

Yesterday, Laura and I set out on the venture of finding a warm, heavy piece of clothing to generally cloak me for the winter. We found it, yes. But had far more fun that the average person as we terrorized all the mall employee's.

We would gasp in horror at their hideous selection of boots, swoon in delight as we looked at men's clothing, (I) chortled in glee at the makeup and perfume counters (I am addicted to them, a hard core addiction, I tell you,), cover our eyes as we gazed at sweater coats and would also loudly covet anything we saw that we must have.

I also, managed to slide down the banister in a rather short skirt and embarass the hell out of Laura.

There is something severrely underrated in this society about shopping with likeminded people. Shopping in and of itself is not what is comforting, it is perusing the aisles of stores, having the freedom to choose as you please. To like and dislike what you see. And to have someone agree with you all the while. There is something innanely sweet about pointing out to another sister that she cannot wear slip dresses and you can.

And then, there is just something wonderful about having sisters

It's a girl. Well, I am that girl. I am the newest, hottest, best product out in the market of our workplace. (Which isn't saying much.)

Anyway, I am now offically, full-time in payroll. They love me. I love it. Let's celebrate! Send me champagne so I can get deleriously drunk. Or, just send me flowers.

Can we all please lobby for a spell checker thingamajig to be installed on your blog poster thingamajig? I have been spoiled and have absolutely no inclination of learning how to spell. My life dependence on such a contraption is evidenced by my "free-thinkingly" spelled versions of certain common everyday words that every red-blooded American child learned how to spell in the third grade of red-blooded American public school. And such remains the tragedy of life, for was homeschooled.

WARNING TO ALL PARENTS! DO NOT LET YOUR CHILD USE SPELL-CHECKER THINGAMAJIG!

Can someone please explain to me, why the ten percent of us who actually do eighty percent of the work, must be persecuted by the other ninety percent since they seem intent on creating more work, though not for them to do.

And that is today's tragedy. Except, the ninety percent happens to be my nemesis, who called in sick, so I get to pick up the pieces of her not doing her job.

Why God, why?

With Veteran's Day just past, I am sure everyone has been thinking bits and pieces about patriotism, Veteran's and most certainly, Iraq.

A few days ago, I posted my thoughts on today's younger veteran's, young people who put their lives on hold to defend our freedom and our right to pursue our dreams and lives.

What about the young people, who not only put their lives on hold, but in defending all we hold dear, the forever altered their course of life. What about the soldier's that come back missing a leg, an arm, their vision or even their way of life as we know it? Their lives will never be the same, they have to change their dreams and their passions, they have to adjust to life with no paticular glory, just as someone who "served their country."

We talk about death, those that die for us, but what of those who have to let part of their lives die? They come back to a changed life, is that not even more painful than death itself? Living daily with a reminder of the sacrifice they made for others, with no return?

Even those who were not physically wounded, on the outside remain passive and calm, but inwardly bearing the wounds of someone who has seen and caused death. Someone who has smelled the acrid scent of burnt flesh and heard the cries of screaming children. Wounds not visible to anyone except those who bear them also.

Where is our thanks? Thanks for those who will never know life to be the same, all for sake of freedom.

My Saturday was spent creating well over five hundred cookies in various shapes, sizes and flavors. I was assisted by two loving little elves (actually more like slave-labor demons) who carefully scooped and rolled over half of these baked creations.

To liven up their hours of drudgery, in typical adolescent style, they thought it would be quite clever to form play Cookie Dough Anatomy. Needless to say, I am scarred for life, you can only imagine the possibilities of their fertile minds, but it mostly consisted of lots of cookie dough testicles.

I will never be able to look at cookies the same.

I would link to the article I read in the paper this morning, but it just so happens that our local newspaper's website sucks, terribly. I digress.

The article that provoked a bit of cog turning in my brain, was that on the death of several college students due to blood alcohol poisoning, as well as the usual druken driving deathes. The article spoke of colleges who sought ways to discourage young people from inbibing too much alcohol and ways they can encourage them to "know their boundries." It spoke of education programs, incentative programs and other things. Citing that young people were "exploring their boundries" and "evolving into adults."

I am so sorry, call me old-fashioned, but what happened to kicking young people out for breaking the law? I have a brilliant plan, encourage the franternities and sororities to keep things legal. Tell young people that breaking laws have consiquences.

Don't get me wrong, I too realize that drinking underage is against the law and every time I do that I am risking jail-time. (Which is why, I have of late, abstained.) But I did not cite that I was merely playing the part of a healthy college student.

Maybe I am just sheltered or something.

"To be born free is a priviledge, to die free is a awesome responsibility."--Unknown

"The greatest glory of a freeborn people is to transmit that freedom to their children."--William Harward:

"America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves." -- Abraham Lincoln

I am pointedly avoiding visiting the recruiting station over my lunch break (again) to find out what it would take to become a medic. Instead, I shall go to B&N to pick up my book on the speeches, quotes and letters of Abraham Lincoln.

Truly, I should stay away from these patriotic programs, they tend to be dangerous to my health and future. I am always ready to run to the nearest recruiting station and enlist, except they are closed at this hour, thankfully. (Mental Note: If I am ever a recruiter, find events like these and sign up suckers like me.)

In other news: being a bridesmaid is SEVERELY OVERRATED!

Most people who know me understand that it is only logical that I take a moment to acknowledge today being Veteran's Day. I exhort you to thank a veteran and do something to show your gratefulness to those who serve and have served our country.

It is easy to think of veteran's as the grizzled older men who fought in Vietnam and Korea, but there are thousands of young people, our age, who have more recently served in Iraq, Afghanistan and around the world. The risked their youth, the best years of their lives in defending our country and preserving our freedoms. While we stayed home and pressed on towards our carefully made plans, they sacrificed their immidate gain to protect our freedom. Really, if you think of the irony of it all, it's quite saddening. Young people who defend those who mock them.

So. thank a veteran. Not just today, but anytime you see someone who has defended and served our country. It's for your own good. Really.

You might be slightly deflated to know that this is not annoucing my promotion of position to full-time payroll department. Better.

We are talking as to the fact of my drowning career as match-maker. I have managed to sucessfully divert the attentions of a thirty-five year old suitor to Joy, who is infinitely more suited to this chap than I.

The completely amusing part of all this, is when chatting with him before, I vaguely mentioned the fact that Joy might be a bit more his cup of tea than I, to which he swore, almost in blood, that he would never, ever be interested in such a thing. Citing that he "would not want to be like the other gentlemen that were interested in us" referencing the blokes who ask the other sister out after they finished dating the first. (I would link to a old post titled "Of First Kisses and Second Boyfriends" but it was erased, thanks to Joy. Please issue your complaints to her.)

Well, he has admitted interest in Joy. So, my friends, this is a lesson to never say never.


Editor's Note: Just because he is interested in Joy, does not mean that they are anything. This is just an amusing note at the expense of someone who had not yet been subjected to the powers and attractions of the most beautiful Joy.

Really. Truly.

I used to complain that we have no traditions in our family for Christmas, other than violently ripping our gifts open and reading the Christmas story. Well, it looks as if I may have started one on my own. Er. Yes.

Last Christmas, I was proposed to. I accepted. Relationship dissolved two months later. (And I politely gave the ring back.)

In between this Christmas and last Christmas I have had the sprinkling of varied proposals. Mostly men and boys who were elated to find out that "real women" existed, godly, could cook, blah, blah. (Makes you wonder if they were "real men.")

Well, with this onslaught of proposal's I have developed an inside joke with myself and tell these lads (jokingly) that the ring must be inspected by the trusted family jeweler if they would like their proposal to be taken seriously.

After telling someone I had never physically met, that no, I would not marry them. I also just had to inform them that the whole business of having the ring inspected was also a joke. No, I did not want a ring. No, I would not marry you. AND LEAVE ME THE BLOODY HELL ALONE.

All I ask is for two white gold teeth. Inset with diamonds. Pre-inspected. If you can't find a jeweler, a committee of three sisters will do.

Merry Christmas.

Market America has the best products ever! It has cured problem so many of my problems, some, I did not even know existed. Friends, family and just about everyone have beneifted, even my cat was cured of hairballs, but I digress.

I have not been able to vomit naturally for around five years. After suffering with eating disorders, the one glaring reminder that had remained to plague me was a inability to vomit without sticking my finger down my throat. Annoying, but convenient at times.

My sister, a rising star in the Market America gallexy, had convinced me to try the Colon Cleanse in order to improve my health. The very first day after carefully reading the instructions, I took the pills and then, I did not even taste it, I simply sniffed my first sip of fiber drink. AND IT HAPPENED! I threw up on my very own! Vomiting will never be the same again!

THANK YOU IVA AND THANK YOU MARKET AMERICA!


Editor's Note: This was reproduced at the request of a loyal blog reader. This was a personal email which has been exploited for the good of the blog reading masses. The editor thought it might be a touch risque, so read at your own risk.

I did, look up some links and verify this before posting this paticular article:


Jane Fonda is being honored as one of the "100 Women of the Century." Unfortunately, many have forgotten and still countless others have never known how Ms. Fonda betrayed not only the idea of our country but specific men who served and sacrificed during Vietnam.

In 1968, the former Commandant of the USAF Survival School, F-4E pilot Jerry Driscoll, was a POW in Ho Lo Prison-the "Hanoi Hilton." Dragged from a stinking cesspit of a cell, he was cleaned, fed and dressed in clean pajama's. He was then ordered to describe for a visiting American "peace activist" the "lenient and humane treatment" he had received. Instead, he spat at Ms. Jane Fonda, was clubbed and dragged away. During the subsequent beating, he fell forward upon the camp Commandant's feet, which sent that officer berserk.

In 1978, when he was released, the Air Force Colonel still suffered from the Vietnamese Colonel's frenzied application of a wooden baton, double vision plagued him for the rest of his life, which permanently ended his flying career.


From 1963-65, Colonel Larry Carrigan was in the F-4E's. He spent 6 years in the Ho Lo Prison, the first three of which he was considered missing in action. His wife lived on faith that he was still alive.

His group, too, were cleaned, fed and clothed in preparation for a "peace delegation" visit.
They, however, had time and devised a plan to get word to the world that they still survived.

Each man secreted a tiny piece of paper, with his SSN on it, in the palm of his hand. They were paraded before Ms. Fonda and a cameraman. As Ms. Fonda walked the line, shaking each man's hand and she asked little encouraging snippets like: "Aren't you sorry you bombed babies?" and "Are you grateful for the humane treatment from your benevolent captors?"

Believing this HAD to be an act, they each palmed her their sliver of paper. She took them all without missing a beat. At the end of the line and once the camera stopped rolling, to the shocked disbelief of the POWs, she turned to the officer in charge and handed him the little pile of papers.

Three men died from the subsequent beatings. Colonel Carrigan was almost number four but he survived, which is the only reason we know about her actions that day.


I was a civilian economic development advisor in Vietnam, and was captured by the North Vietnamese communists in South Vietnam in 1968 and held for over 5 years. I spent 27 months in solitary confinement, one year in a cage in Cambodia and one year in a "black box" in Hanoi.

My North Vietnamese captors deliberately poisoned and murdered a female missionary, a nurse in a leprosarium in Ban me Thuot, South Vietnam, whom I buried in the jungle near the Cambodian border. At one time, I was weighing approximately 90 lbs. (My normal weight is 170 lbs.)

We were Jane Fonda's "war criminals."

When Jane Fonda was in Hanoi, I was asked by the camp communist political officer if I would be willing to meet with Jane Fonda. I said yes, for I would like to tell her about the real treatment we POWs received different from the treatment purported by the North Vietnamese, and parroted by Jane Fonda, as "humane and lenient."

Because of this, I spent three days on a rocky floor on my knees with outstretched arms with a large amount of steel placed on my hands and beaten with a bamboo cane till my arms dipped.

I had the opportunity to meet with Jane Fonda for a couple of hours after I was released. I asked her if she would be willing to debate me on TV. She did not answer me.

Upon perusing my reader activity (thank you dear readers) I came upon not one, but two international visitors. One from Iran and one from the United Kingdom.

We will ignore the fact that it was most likely a mishap or fluke and simply state that I am a internationally read blogger! (This is the point where I insert a clever Iranian word, if I knew one.)

Thank you readers, even if you aren't really a reader, but merely a stumbling fluke.

I have never understood why obscene phonecalls are as traumatizing as they are, until this very moment.

A few minutes ago, when I answered the phone, the following conversation took place:

Sarah: "Career Associates, Resume Services and BesTemps"
Pervert: "Who am I speaking with?"
Sarah: "Sarah"
Pervert: "I been watching you for awhile and I think your hot..."
Sarah interupts: "Is this William?" (William is a guy whom I know has a crush on me)
Pervert continues: "Is that ok?"
Sarah: "No"
Pervert: "Well, I wanna f*** you after work, are you ready?"

It was at that point, I hung up. But I wish I had the precense of mind to tell him off, get his name or something slightly more helpful. Unfortunately, I did not. But I have a feeling it would only have gotten worse from there.

It didn't freak me out that badly until I mused of the "I have been watching you" bit and thought, what if he lurks about my car or something?

I did not call the police, but I did tell my supervisor who will fill out an incident report. She says this has happened before and they will take precautions, if it happens a second time, they then call the police. I think.

This is where that birthday handgun would come in handy.

I have, my good friends, gone through most of my archives, breaking up those stream-of-conciousness posts into paragraphs and scraping more than a handful of unnecessary comma's out of them.

I did, refrain from changing any of the actual content. Though I was very tempted, I refrained. They are there to keep me humble. Right?

And after reading that much of my work, I have come to the conclusion that I annoy myself. Greatly.

Most people would think "multi-grain bagels" but, my friends, we have come out with a far superior product. Bagels that can be used for ice scrapers.

You might be thinking that your average multi-grain bagel is hard enough to use as such, but, the advent of such a product was brought to our company this morning when one of our employees was unable to find an icescraper before going to work. After fishing about their car for a bit, finding a stale bagel, they declared it suitable for use. It worked. Beautifully. You should try it.

My song of the moment is "More Than Love" by the the Los Lonely Boys.

I know. I am the world's biggest sap. Truly. At least I admit it. And for all of you closet sap's who listen to love songs and will not admit it. Listen. It will be good for you.

Chocolate mousse for your ears, you could say. Ok. That just sounds weird.

I would just like to make a note: To Those Who Rummage Through My Embarassing Archives

I know who you are.

Yes, I have this nifty tracker thing that lets me see who looks at my archives, where they are from and even who their internet provider is.

So, to those who KEEP viewing the MOST embarassing post's ever, if you continue to do so, I will(or intruct my resident beaver) go gnaw through your internet provider's power lines. No more embarassing archive viewing for YOU!

I live in a family of overachievers. To put it bluntly. I could blather on about how we simply all have high aspirations or something equally sweet. But, I have never liked artifical sweetener, so I am not about to start.

Some morning, when you wake up, it's like that old lion proverb:

Every morning in Africa, a gazelle wakes up. It knows it must run faster than the fastest lion or it will be killed. Every morning a lion wakes up. It knows that it must outrun the slowest gazelle or it will starve to death. It doesn't matter whether you are a lion or a gazelle ,when the sun comes up, you'd better be running.

You can, insert appropriate and different siblings names into the gazelle and lion spaces, but all in all, it can be quite difficult living with the next Bill Gates, Diane Sawyer and Vera Wang. An eclectic conglomeration, but possible nonetheless.

Also, because we are all overachievers, we can never do enough. That might seem like a no-brainer to some, but think of the logsitics of it all and it becomes quite overwhelming. No matter how much we have on our plates, there is always room for more. (Do I see patterns of obesity emerging here?) We can never be stretched thin enough, work too hard or get too little sleep. Some (few) people look at us with awe and wonder applauding us for how wonderful we are. Just try living with us, it's exhausting! Every day you must justify your existence. Every day is one day closer to your deadline. LIFE IS ONE GIANT WORK PROJECT.

Anyway. To the mediocre, I salute you. Enjoy it while you can, because before long you are going to be taken of by one of my fabulous siblings.

One hand on wheel, one hand on horn: Chicago
One hand on wheel, one finger out window: New York
One hand on wheel, one finger and head out window, cursing, cutting across all lanes of traffic: Philly
One hand on wheel, one hand on newspaper, foot solidly on accelerator: Boston
One hand on wheel, one hand on non-fat double decaf cappuccino, cradling cell phone, brick on accelerator, with gun in lap: L.A.
Both hands on wheel, eyes shut, and both feet on brake, quivering in terror: Ohio, but driving in California.
Both hands in air, gesturing, both feet on accelerator, head turned to talk to someone in backseat: Italy
One hand on latte, one knee on wheel, cradling cell phone, foot on brake, mind on game: Seattle
One hand on wheel, one hand on hunting rifle, alternating between both feet being on accelerator and both feet on brake, throwing a McDonald's bag out the window: Texas
Four-wheel drive pick-up truck, shotgun mounted in rear window, beer cans on floor, squirrel tails attached to antenna: West Virginia
Two hands gripping wheel, blue hair barely visible above window level, driving 35 on the Interstate in the left lane with left blinker on: Florida
One hand on wheel, the other holding a cell phone, driving 130 mph and four feet from your bumper, late for happy hour, while flashing headlights to tell you to get the hell out of the way: Washington, D.C., Beltway

I know most of you must be thinking I am mistaken and am referring to my oft caught disease of foot in mouth. But no. This time, I am talking about the real deal.

Yes. The disease that thousands of cattle are slaughtered over in an attempt to contain it. A coworker's child was running rampant around the office ploiferating germs everywhere. Claiming it wasn't contageous. HOW DO YOU THINK HE GOT IT? Dude.

Let me tell you, right now. My little hand santizer bottle is busy. It's lazy butt is OUT of it's brass holder!

I have just decided, the smell we do not speak of is of those that do not bathe.

Please bathe. I will love you.

To most people, hand sanitizer is known as an innocent little product, favored by mothers of small children and clean freaks.

Well, my friends, I have news for you, it is my new best friend. Or it is supposed to be.

My boss has developed this hand sanitizer fetish, large dispensers loom in every corner, as well as a cute little bottle on each person's desk. I have been brainstorming Christmas gifts and I was thinking adorable little brass personalized bottle holders. Even better, with nicknames that I have personally deemed. How about starting with the seven dwarves. Grump? Oh wait! Did they have a Bossy?

Anyway, I think the alcohol has thoroughly evaporated any sense of smell that I might have once had. And common sense. Can common sense be evaporated?

The Association of Desk Jockies is pleased to announce the debut of the long-participated sport of WSW. For those of you who are not familiar with this sport, it is Watching Sarah Work. A strenious but exciting sport, not for the faint of heart.

This is a highly involved event, to properly play this game of skill, you must give Sarah a project of varrying difficulty, then watch as she completes it, as you stand over her making various comments while eating donuts, drinking coffee and being generally unhelpful. For the more committed player, you should even, turn your back on her, while doing the aforesaid activities. This allows you, as a professional athelete, to gain five pounds, catch up on office gossip and have your work done for you, all at once.

As you can see, this is a very excitng and productive sport and we hope that you will enjoy it as much as we have!

I would like to say that the Kisses for Bush campaign was more sucessful than the Crack for Kerry, even though Bush won, all the states where the inhabitants were offered kisses for Bush votes, Kerry won. So, I cannot truthfully say that it was a sucessful endeavor. Oh well. I tried. Was patriotic. And it made for good stories. (Since when have we ever been short of those?)