There is something terribly wrong with me when I lose my cell phone, I have to hunt it down, outside. Following the sounds of the pitiful ring all across the property, only to find it buried in a heap of snow, bleating pathetically. Frozen. Cold. Almost lifeless.


This sort of abuse is not covered in the insurance policy.

During dinner last night, we were having those freakish jaunts down memory lane that nearly causes you to lose your appetite. (Nearly, but not quite. Very little keeps me from my food.) It pains me to remember how I dated his fellow but some memories are too good to keep to myself and must be shared with my loyal blog audience.

This former boyfriend (thought I cringe at calling him that), owner of not one but TWO huge Ford trucks, wanted to purchase a set of truck testicles as "manly" decoration. Yes, really. As if the giant, rumbling, muddy vehicles with urinating gremlin decals were not enough, AS IF.

I told him in no uncertain terms that I WOULD NOT ride in or near any vehicle sporting such decoration. Furthermore, I would WALK before being seen supporting such vulgarity with my presence. Faced with the prospect of a girlfriend who would be doing a lot of walking (and would quickly lose those curves he loved!), he
relented. Imagine my shock when I saw him mowing the lawn on his riding lawnmower, testicles proudly dangling FROM HIS LAWNMOWER. Painted yellow, to coordinate with his John Deere equipment.


Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it.

Is having your pipes burst a valid reason to not come to work so I have to do your job? Especially, CALLING THE ME THE NIGHT BEFORE TO TELL ME. Tell your freaking boss. Get them fixed. Staying home to stare at them is not going to help.


Or maybe I am just a workaholic.

Yesterday. Was. The. Longest. Day. Ever.

To any woman who has experience wearing heels for extended periods of time, she can pinpoint the degree of pain I am referring to when I mention that I was on stillettos from six in the morning until one this morning. God. Bless. Me.

The day at the modeling agency was not too painful, lots of advising girls as to wheter their eyebrows were two hairs too thin or not. And watching these "incredibly beautiful girls who any man would want to go out with" coo over seventeen year old model boys who are walking a very fine line between gay and straight. But all in all, I survived.

Then went to lovely irish pub where our waiter resembled a tall lepruchan. If that is possible.

Then went to beauty pageant, where we cheered loudly and watched people with very bad hair win.

We then went to dinner, where Joy informed our waiter that he could "fill up her coffee, not her."

When then drove home, which should have been two hours, but was more like three and SEEMED like fifty since the windshield wiper blade was having serious issues and was SUPPOSED to get repaired, but wasn't. So we drove, THREE HOURS with a constant sound so physically painful I thought I was going to vomit.



And that is the story of my weekend. Minus the Sunday morning chicken houses. I have never been so happy to see a Monday.

While to some, this remains a mystery, I have just made yet another exhibit of why it is not wise. I cannot muster up the coordination to walk down a icy handicap ramp. I manage to fall and slide on my butt. To. The. Very. Bottom. Of. The. Mile. Long. Ramp.



If this does not shed a bit of light my reasoning, you are hopeless.

Remember, I said I came from a long line of protestors and contendors of the law.



I am probably fifth cousins twice removed with these people. Seriously.

And this only proves my point about This Saturday.



Half naked imps with bad hair.

Buyer's Remorse.

I did not hit an early mid-life crisis and buy a boat, Corvette and young wife. Or girlfriend. Though, right now I am wishing I had. Even the girlfriend bit.

Instead, I agreed to INVEST my Saturday in chaperoning a TWO HOUR bus ride up to Wilmington in a bus filled with twittering, aspiring-model girls. Which, might not be so bad, since they do idolize you a bit. Their eyes widen ever so slightly when they hear you are a model. Obviously, if this title is being applied to me, they use it rather loosely. But, since they are none the wiser, these girls want to be JUST LIKE YOU, plus a gastric bypass surgery, when they grow up. Or grow out, or whatever.

Where this Saturday really begins to detoriorate is the six and a half hour photo shoot that follows the two hour bus ride.

One word:

Model-Sluts-With-Incredibly-Bad-Boob-Jobs-Who-Look-Down-Their-Surgically-Enhanced-Noses-At-You

Joy and I, have in the past, fended them off with much humor and our innate ability to create coherent intelligent sentences. Which does, I must admit, give us a rather unfair advantage in the whole conversation department. Joy and I were Cute and Funny, Joy being cute, me being funny. But now, I am a gruesome half-creature known as Funny, leaning towards Odd. I cannot, do this alone! These girls are the depravity of man imposed in female form. Catty. Skanky. Brainless. In telling you this, not that I haven't said it before, it is me being incredibly wholesome and truthful, I see this as my opportunity to be Salt & Light in a world that is incredibly decieved when it comes to the entire beauty industry.



If I escape alive, without claw marks, I will let you know.

My co-workers are obviously slightly deranged if they think I should live in California and be Whatever It Is That People In California are, which they are obviously convinced is strange.

Now, they are QUITE SURE that I am from another planet entirely. Playing Norah Jones in my office was pushing their culture limit. After listening to her, THREE TIMES, I switched to Rigoletto. You. Should. Hear. The. Screams. Of. Protest.

I tried to quell their fears by saying it was expanding their memory and such, but, they would not hear of it. As they have made quite apparent, culture is the stuff that grows on old cheese.



I think, I will invest in Chris BottI and keep it at that.

A few of my co-worker's just walked into my office and gravely informed me they had reached a concensus.

On what, you may ask, just as I did.

"In the unlikely event you get married, you will marry someone from California because your personality would suit the enviroment, as would your style."

Please note: My style is a bit overwhelming for them, the simple fact that I HAVE style. And, they are quite sure, that IF I do get married, I would put him in a manilla folder and file him away.



Coming from them, I think I will consider that a compliment.

I finially, have an office to myself. I am fabulously happy. I have organized my entire office in my anal control freak fashion. I have Windexed all flat surfaces, horizontal and vertical. I have filed everything, including my leftover napkins. I am listening to strains of Norah Jones. I could not be happier.



Actually, the new Chris Botte cd would complete my perfection. But, you can't have it all in life, now can you?

I realized I have a grave and dreadful disease.

Disease is what they call it when you are addicted to liquid beverages, right? I was drinking out of the bottle on the way here, smuggled it into the office building in my purse and then poured it into my coffee cup and drank it pseudo-coffee style.

I say things like "Nothing like a bit in the morning to wake you up!" and "Goes with everything." Scary statements like that.

I have deduced that they have started putting crack into Coke products again, but since it is DIET Coke that I am addicted to, it should not be quite so harmful.




Or am I just making feeble excuses for the curses that have me so firmly in their clutches?

My dear Pageant Barbie sister was waxing eloquent this morning of her new plan for weight loss and exercise for Miss Delaware. Fabulous.

Except, I just know, deep down in my little knower, that she is going to turn into one of those pathetic scraps of a human being who is shriveled, skinny and drinks their diet coke through a straw, all the while pinching their flesh between their fingers, yelping for you to LOOK AND SEE HOW FAT THEY ARE.

Ok. That was mean. But, you can at least pray that she doesn't turn into that, because it would then force me to show my serial killer side.



Not necessarily a good thing, since I cannot aim a gun worth... anything.

Today I was feeling splendidly healthful, so for my lunch I logically brought some left-over's from last night's rather low-fat dinner. Scrumptious Soup.

As usual, I had to watch the fron desk for Jealous Cow and once she was FINALLY finished, I was incredibly starving. Incredibly. Heated up my low-fat soup. Started eating.

Only to note that there were OVERTONES OF GARLIC. Disgusting. I could not even finish it. So. Here I sit. Starving. Shooting reviling looks at the garlic soup.



This, is, a senseless tragedy. The one time I am movtivated to eat healthy, it turns into vampire food.

It is very, very bad of me to peruse the music section of Barnes and Noble, because it leaves me want far too many new cd's.

But I must, absolutely must, or it will be grevious to my health, get the new Norah Jones and Chris Botti cd's.



Or I could guilt trip Laura into getting them for me.

In light of the fact there has been a startling shortage of interesting material on my blog and a even bleaker lack of amusing stories in my life. I have, decided to look into this job offer.




Interesting stories, no?

Last night, after we found out that Pageant Barbie has indeed won a pageant,

(Pause for a moment of silence or applause. Whichever you prefer.)

we called Skinny Barbie with the joyous news, and she promptly requested that we come over. To her drunk boyfriend's-niece's-house IN THE MIDDLE OF GOD FORSAKEN NOWHERE.

Since the three of us were more keyed up and excited than we should have been at such a late and uneartly hour, we were talking in very high pitched tones, waving our hands like air-traffic controllers and rolling our eyes about in our heads when we talked. Three of us. All at once.

Drunk Boyfriend had a Drunk Brother over. What I find so incredibly charming about drunk people is their innate ability to be as subtle as a thunder storm. Something I relate to, quite well. So, the Drunk Brother was trying to make beauty pageant jokes while the Drunk Boyfriend was RUFFLING OUR HAIR. Like we were five years old. Like small kindergarten children. Like what you do to small people who do not reach your waist in height. I was not complaining since he is one of those incredibly well-natured drunk people, who is content to sit on the deck in sub-freezing weather, listening to John Mayer and drunkenly strumming his guitar. Rather than suggesting we all go hot-tubbing naked together. But that is another story. For another day.

We chatted about and Princess had her butt stared at for a bit and all in all it was quite uneventful, but, it did lead me to the very deep and serious thought that our Celebration Rituals could use a little improvement.



Skinny dipping, anyone?

It just dawned on me, after reading Dave's comments on the Hairdresser's SON Date Prospect, and he mentioned The Shotgun Story, I never did tell that story in it's full entirity for my blog audience.

Unfortunately, Dave read's my blog, so that could be a bit akward, eh? Though, it has not constrained Dave from making comments regarding this story.



I am now pondering whether this is a wise story to tell. For posterity's sake.

If anyone would like motivation to never eat a scrap of food again, go here.



Now that I am properly nauseated, I shall comfort myself with chocolate.

What in the name of common sense possesed me to say "Sure, why not? I have done crazier things!" When my boss asked me if I would be interested in meeting her hairdresser's son.



Prehaps it is because she happens to flatter me incessently and has moderately cute hair. (The boss that is.)

You know you live in a small town when you find great amusement out of getting lost in Wal Mart.

Now, please understand, I am NOT one of those people who goes to Wal Mart for the fun of it, I find that incredibly horrid. I mean how much louded can you shout PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING than TRYING to get thrown out of Wal Mart to amuse yourself. Actually, I hate Wal Mart with a passion.

But, people find our Wal Mart somewhat of a novelty, it IS rather large. I know it like the back of my hand, for undisclosed reasons, so when Laura and I went on the hunt for the perfect water bottle to go with my new running shoes it was supposed to be uneventful. Which it was, until I COULD NOT FIND LAURA to save my life and was being chased by mexicans as I looked high and low for her, to no avail.

After we finially reconvenned in the Diet Coke section, all was well, but I was silently hating myself for laughing so hard at LOSING MY SISTER IN WAL MART.



Jeez. I just need to date my cousin and be done with it.

The reason that I am acting like a Rabid Cricket On Crack is because I drank a twenty-four ounce coffee, two more in-house cups and a bottle of diet coke. The caffeine not only makes you dizzy, but lends a sudden clarity and brightness to things.



I am blinded by the snow.

Since I have been hopping about like the aforementioned Cricket, you can only imagine the results. Paticularly since my Supervisor is once again, out.

Watching me work has to be amusing, a bit like watching a bug in a glass. The antics range from amusing to downright terrifying.

Like, when I blithly misplaced about fifty thousand dollars, only to figure out what I had done and fly into a panic. Then, realize I had placed them two inches away from my fingertips.



I think I need to upgrade to crack.

While this article makes an excellent point, I still cannot see myself jumping about saying "HOOYAH!" Or "Semper Fi!" Even under the encouragement that "all girls in the Marine Corps get laid."



Maybe I should look into Being An Army of One.

I know I have mentioned this more than once. Ok, several times. But here, sitting on my desk, is physical proof that we need to start lobbying for a Starbucks to HURRY UP AND COME HERE, for the good of the people.

This morning's tasty little brew lingers in your mouth like a bad cigar. In fact, it tastes like cigar ashes mixed with dishwater. And I NEEDED some serious caffeine to get me off of my Chick Flick Hangover.



Until moral increases, the beatings and bad coffee will increase with terrifying regularity.

Last night, as I braved the frozen roads to rent MORE movies, since we were all in vegetable-like states, our electricity went out. In the past, we would have run huge vats of water, as if we were not going to see electric lights or running water for a solid month and then we would have amused ourselves by reading books and acting like people from Little House On The Prarie.

Well, I was at a loss, I had no internet, no television, no heat and my cell phone battery was DYING. Stupid cell phone. So, after waiting about two hours, I resorted to sleep, only to wake up in the middle of the night with all the lights on. Nice.

You may ask why I took so long to figure out sleep was the only intelligent option. Simple answer. We watched Seven. I was completley freaked out and made a beautiful case for never letting Sarah watch scary movies without something strong to hold on to. Ever again.




In short, this has been a demonstration why Sarah always needs electric and something strong to hold on to.

This does not bode well.

It is only four in the afternoon, snowing heavily and I have already come up with approximentally three reasons to kill everyone in this house. Including the dogs.

Prehaps I could fill up my idle time by building a igloo? Go husky shopping? Become a discriminator of fine furs? OR PREHAPS JUST MOVE TO FLORIDA.

Wimper.

Please. Just. Get. Warm. Before. I. Freeze.



BECAUSE WE DO NOT BELIEVE IN TURNING UP THE HEAT. (Would that make it Cabin Pnuemonia?)

Today, I had to go into work, in the pouring snow (does snow pour?) and do stupid tax work. In the pouring snow. Without being paid overtime.

CAN WE SAY ILLEGAL? CAN WE SAY NOT FAIR?

Now, I feel as if it is a weekday and tomorrow will be Saturday. And the coming week will be messed up dreadfully. My internal clock has been shaken and unplugged. I am confused. Do I want children? Now? Never? Later?



Don't make me work on weekends. It produces thoughts of children, and I can assure you my offspring will terrorize the HELL out of you. Guareented or your money back.

Some people in my office either have terribly guilty conciences or do not know how to laugh, or BOTH.

I have been informed that my notes for office machinery are "mean and nasty" and "completely unecessary." These, by the very people whom they were intended for.




There will come a day when they will be grateful to say they read MY OFFICE NOTES.

I am sure, there are many others out there who are breathing sighs of relief after seeing that the Bush Twins showed up for the inagueration fully clad. The novelty of it all! I personally, cannot fathom, why two girls who could wear whatever designer they want, always look like they rolled out of bed after a night on the town.



Sometimes the mysteries of life escape me.

Does anyone else find Clay Aiken's look of The Albino Mouse a bit disturbing?

Does anyone else think that the lyrics:

"I wish I could be a fly on your wall
Are you really alone
Then I could just watch you in your room
You don't hear a sound
I keep tracing your steps
Even when I'm scream out"


SOUND A BIT STALKERISH? How on earth is that romantic? HOW ON EARTH IS THAT EVEN ON THE AIRWAVES? If anyone else has had stalkers, they know what I mean.



Especially Albino Mouse Stalkers. Freakish

I think, if I a terrible childhood was behind me and I was the younger, oppressed, misunderstood, creatively suppressed and overworked younger sister, then there would be this incredibly satisfying sense of power to be writing my OLDER SISTER's paycheck.

But the worse that happened to me was they made me drink glasses of lemon juice, walk over broken glass, shoot at my feet to make me dance and set my hair on fire.* So, really, this whole gloating thing is no fun.



Ignore the above statements and silently curse Princess with me for being so damned nice.


*These things have happened or have been plotted by various family members, dead and alive.

Since I need to be able to do:

Two mile run in sixteen minutes
A one point five mile run in ten minutes and fifty-five seconds
Fourty push-ups in two minutes
Seventy-five sit ups in two minutes
Five pull ups

All this before I leave for bootcamp


Can you hear me wimpering yet?

To Those Who Use This Bathroom:

We live in a rather advanced day and age of medicine.

Realistic prothetetics have been developed, every day they are coming closer to a cure for cancer, we no longer have plagues and rampant debilitating diseases. Small pox, black plague, bubonic plague and other sickness that brought certain death, have not been heard of in years.

Do you know why this is possible? Because people learned HYGEINE!

Not just the basic washing of hands and soap usage, but the THROWING YOUR PAPER TOWELS INTO THE TRASHCAN.

Think about it. Do you REALLY want to pick up someone's germy paper towel with little creepy-crawly things and only God-knows-what on it? NO. And no one wants to pick up yours. So, we have a simple little request:

AIM. Don't miss.

The trashcan is waist high, two inches from where you are standing now. If you miss and are incapable of trying again and AGAIN until you get it, you should really think about what the words PATHETIC EXCUSE FOR A HUMAN BEING.

If you find all this insulting, just clean up after yourself and you will save yourself the trouble of reading them and me writing them.

Does anyone else find it extremely amusing that Donald Trump, the man whose is known for his bad hair and bankruptcies is:

Starting a Hair Care Line. Appropriately named The Lonely Three: How To Make The Most Of What You Have. Which includes glue and hairspray for wig pieces

Writing a book on how to be a financial sucess. How To Make Millions Of Dollars, Marry Fabulous Women And Still Be The Worst-Dressed Person Alive. The sequel will be How To Be Bankrupt With Style.



This man is seriously deranged.

I am not facing a moral delimma as to how severely corrupt I really am, though not to the extent of my sisters. The Beauty Queen is questioning her inner-character since she has a new revulsion to dating ugly guys. She is thinking of rewriting The Sister Code to include a bit about not guilt tripping one another into dating people because you feel sorry for them.

Though, she should be feeling serious pangs in her concience since she promised herself AND ME to a BLIND DATE over Valentine's Day. I am all for blind dates. I mean, I can handle them, but ON VALENTINE'S DAY? That not only signifies that you are a LOSER and PATHETIC, but it is WAVING IT IN THE FACE OF SOCIETY.

Ignore that last bit. Not sure how that really works out.

Actually, I don't think it will be that bad, because, if things get ugly, we can simply shoot them and chuck them in the river. Something that is on my List Of Things To Do Before I Die.

Now that I have talked myself into oblivion, I have temporarily forgotten what my soul was being held in perilous danger of hellfire for. Think. Think.

NOW I REMEMBER. The X-Boyfriend who called out of the blue and drunkenly propsed at Christmas, also called, out of the blue, about two weeks ago, to inform me that he had a girlfriend. CONGRATULATIONS! THIS IS THE SOUND OF ME CARING.

This is the person that was obsessed with fitness and calories. I seriously could not eat in front of him, and I am not a girl who is easily hindered from my food. It was reported to me, from a rather reliable source who saw the couple together, that she is rather, well, plump. Is that terribly wicked of me to be so delighted?

I don't think I would care quite so much if there had not been so many UNWANTED PHONE CALLS.



Well, for today, I shall indulge in my carnal desire to delight. Like eating a whole box of chocolates BY MYSELF.

Being asked out in German. Is that something I should be proclaiming?


Can someone teach me how to say NO, I DO NOT DATE DIRTY OLD MEN.

Since the Jealous Cow has once again, mysteriously gotten sick, without harboring ANY SORT OF SYMPTOMS yesterday. I have had to do part of her job for part of the day.

Of course, to amuse myself, I wanted to do Internet Related Things. But, because she had filled her computer with freebee programs and spyware, it was IMPOSSIBLE. Just like yesterday, when I went to publish a blog post, after ten minutes of thinking it ATE my post and acted niave.

I have taken it upon myself to teach her Actions Have Consiquences Lesson, which her parents obviously missed in her upbringing.

So I deleted all her stupid programs.



Today's Lesson: Don't make Sarah do your job if your not really sick. Or your WEATHER BUG on your computer will disappear. Eaten by a grew.

I hate doctors.

The fact that they think just because they are more important in their own eyes, the eyes of the IRS and the eyes of society, they can make you wait FOREVER even though you had an appointment AN HOUR AGO. If I were smart enough, I would be a doctor, just for the power trip. There was a reason God did not make me smart enough, but I digress.

So, once I FINIALLY got in to see the doctor, they started making me do all sorts of horrific contortions that only a little chinese man who had slept with his head between his ankles since the age of FIVE should be able to do. So I twisted, turned and pretended for one brief and shining moment I was a normal human being who could function properly. All this WITHOUT DRUGS, special breathing exercises or an epidural.

As if that isn't impressive enough, they made me do this whole warped routine AGAIN and ask IS THERE PAIN? Hm. Let me see. Since the sounds of muscles ripping and bones popping, as I contort myself into a little human pyramid, has not tipped you off, I will get MY power trip by LYING TO YOU. So, I smiled, barely blinked and said THERE IS NO PAIN.

When they suspiciously quizzed my on my SUDDEN improvement in my back pain, I murmured about the profound effects of a new mattress and jogging. Don't know where I got jogging from, since I have vaguely thought about it in the past month and I haven't actually SLEPT on my new mattress since I have gotten it. But both of those things are insignificant since I also failed to mention the powers of MUSCLE RELAXANTS and street drugs.



My kind sir, I have but one question, IS THERE PAIN as you kiss your own well-paid ass?

As evidenced by my last post, it is, well, RATHER COLD. This very moment, the little Weather Bug that hovers in the corner of my screen is proclaiming the tempature a cheery EIGHTEEN DEGREES.

I think this is perfectly good reason to:

Permanently move to Hawaii

Buy a full length mink coat

Experiment with being an eskimo

Tell everyone I hate that they need to FREEZE AND DIE



Maybe I should consider a mascetomy?

Walk in the door, stare at my chest and proclaim "It's COLD outside, I can TELL!"

Did you THINK I would not NOTICE that my BOOBS were being FONDLED with your EYES? Do I LOOK like a FREAKING walking thermometer? Like you just didn't walk out of the FREEZING cold, you had to LOOK at me LIKE THAT to TELL that? Bucko, if you owned anything more than a bicycle, I would SUE your scrawny butt for sexual harrasment and PERMANENT emotional damage.



May I now commence to my life of wearing a BURKA.

According to everyone in my office, as they so freely give their unsolicited opinions, they can never see me:

Married.

In The AirForce.

A Stuntcar Driver.



THANKS FOR DASHING MY DREAMS TO THE ROCKS.

Ten thousand... of what? Fleas? Lip injections? Diet Cokes?

Ten thousand hits since September 1st!



So, we can hold off on the Botox for now.

Has anyone else noticed the ads for Dr.Phils' marvelous program, beckoning you to End Your Weight Struggle. Today!?

I have news for you my little bald-headed buddy. It is going to take allot more than your fast talking, mustache wiggling and encouraging words to have me end my love affair with chocolate. While I am sure the man means well, has anyone else noticed he seems a bit on the plump side himself? Maybe I should bargain with him, he makes himself look like a non-troll, and I will End My Weight Struggle. Today!



Actually, I think the top of his shiny bald head looks a little like a PORKCHOP.

You would never guess how incredibly perilous my job is. Today, I have been snagged by binders, attacked by desk and gouged by drawers. At the rate I am going, my clothing will be shredded by the end of the day. Which could be a rather disgusting mental picture.



I just hope the staplers and scissors continue to behave.

The perilous adventures of the three of us never cease to crack me up. For a detailed account of the adventure, go here. But in short, I will suffice to say, we did not protest the fact we were lesbians to get our dinner paid for.

And this incredibly educated guess was deducted from the fact we don't enjoy ogling drunk guys. With candy thongs. Who invite us to bite off of it.

As we sat there and laughed at their incredibly drunken propositions, I reminded the girls, this is what I would have been marrying into, a couple of proposals ago.



Here's a toast to a life without candy thongs and drunken firemen!

Tell me that my hair makes me look like a biker chick. Excuse me, last time I checked, biker chicks didn't wear pearls.

Inform me that you would not want your niece/daughter/sister-in-law to grow up like me. That is all fine and well, I don't know if I want to be me either, but do you need to TELL me that?


All in all, I am clearly a bad influence.

This morning, has been filled with adventure in the truest sense. A trip to the DMV and the Social Security Office. Both places required lots of waiting, clutching my (stolen) iPod and hoping no one was going to molest me for it.


Maybe that's what I get for stealing.

I have a friend who thinks Birkenstocks are perfectly respectable footwear. PLEASE HELP ME DISSAUGE HIM OF THIS IDEA.



Comment. Burn his sandals. Something.

I find it appalling, disgusting, annoying and generally childish to see GROWN MEN purposely squealing their tires. RIGHT in front of MY open office window, so, as I talk on the phone I CANNOT HEAR A DAMNED THING.

NOTHING.

Zilch.

I feeling like yelling something out the window. But, that would be stooping to their level, so I shall once again, rise above the rabble.


PORKCHOP HEADS.

I have offically crossed over into the life of intelligence and non-glamour.

I am now brunette. Which means I don't have fun, I am sensible, practical and smart. I don't drive fast, I eat my vegetables, don't eat chocolate and will marry at twenty-one and have many children.


Or maybe I will just dare to be different.

My blog counter says I only have 199 posts and it has said that since November. Very odd. I emailed Blogger about it, but they said nothing.

My neck has a enormous CRICK in it. My sleeping pillow is defunct, thus rendering me a mutiant neck-cripple.

I want to go to the zoo. And I can't. Because I am a responsible adult and I must be at work. But this weather demands ZOO FREEDOM.


And someone told me they don't like my hair. HOW DARE THEY.

Ring Shopping Sister has deleted Pageant Barbie and me from her blog links list. WHAT A PORKCHOP HEAD. I know she is in love and all that crap, but, STILL.

This is me sulking.

This is me contemplating taking HER link of MY link list, but I have more dignity than that.



I will rise above, and call her names. PORKCHOP HEAD.

People in my office do not understand. Me. Or anything interesting for that matter.

They could not, for the life of them, percieve why I was so excited that we are FINIALLY getting a REAL Starbucks here in our sad little town. After asking me why exactly Starbucks was better than Wawa and hearing my spluttering outrage, the only words they could muster were "You are a prep at heart."


Coming from them, I will consider that a compliment.

Is there anyone else in the free, civilized world who realizes saying you are ONE HUNDRED percent sure of something, is just ASKING, no, make that begging and pleading, no, make that, waving-a-red-cape-under-the-nose-of-Murphy's-Law.

Please. Say your almost sure. Say your ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent sure. Do not act as if the world is your oyster. DO NOT SAY ONE HUNDRED PERCENT.

Especially when you are prone to changing your mind. Making mistakes. And generally being wrong. ESPECIALLY WHEN IT IS PERTAINING TO SPENDING THE REST OF YOUR LIFE WITH SOMEONE. (When your saying one hundred percent sure of knowing God's will, I think you need to have a DIRECT line to God to be able to legally say that.)

I AM SUING. WHERE IS MY LAWYER?

I believe, that is asking, begging, pleading and cape-waving to have your brakes tweaked, food poisoned and your parachute stolen.


DO NOT TEMPT THE CREATIVITY OF SARAH.

In true family form, my brother, the political activist.


This is not the time to dig out the clippings of Laura and I protesting.

Just this weekend, I finially saw that movie after being told what a classic it was, how incredibly deprived I am and how much culture I was missing.

Yeah right.

It was amusing in a very quirky, random, scary way. After seeing this movie, I was told by a completely unrelated speciman, that my blog made our family sound like The Royal Tennenbaums. Scary. I would like to think we are slightly less disfuncional.

It is now, that I should be drawing great analogies of Margot and Laura, but really, I don't have it in me this morning to insult my siblings that greatly. (Since there was three children, I would be conveniently left out.)



I could see us chopping off each other's fingers though.

1. Be the Jealous Cow Who Stole My Job But Had To Give It Back Again.

2. Be the Jealous Cow Who Stole My Job But Had To Give It Back Again Who I Have To Watch The Front Desk For, and complain CONTINUALLY that YOU have to take a lunch break, all the while watching me cram my lunch in my mouth, answer the phone, talk to clients and curse you under my breath.

3. Be the Jealous Cow Who Stole My Job But Had To Give It Back Again Who I Have To Watch The Front Desk For, and MAKE me watch the front desk as SOON as my DARLING sister brings me lunch. Just because you are jealous that you A. Don't have a gorgeous sister. B. You don't have anyone who likes you enough to bring you lunch.



I think HAMBURGERS sound good for lunch. Rare. REALLY rare.

A friend of mine is in Afghanistan right now. When I asked him what he thought and this is what he said:

About the prisoner situation, I don't think it was neccesarily right what they did, but I don't believe the press should have made such a big deal out of it.

First of all like you said the prisoners are not soldiers but renegades and they themselves do not adhere to the the rules of engagement. While I do think it was poor judgment on the US soldiers parts and I think they should be punished, I hate to see such a negative effect on the way civilians view the rest of the military based on this and several other isolated incidents.

Some soldiers see first hand what these poor excuses for humanity are capable of doing, killing their close friends, using women and children for their advantage, and continually putting innocent people in harms way. After awhile your going to have some aggresion towards these people.

It seems like an overwhelming number of people want to judge us without walking in our shoes first and without realizing what we see. It can, in fact, change some of the views we ourselves used to have. But some people have really negative feelings about soldiers and I think they are ignorant for not at least trying to understand what we go through.


Makes you think, doesn't it?

In a sheer moment of boredom Joy and I were flipping through HotorNot and came across this.


Nothing like the power of advertising.

Last night, was another atypical pageant night. Performing monkeys in heels gadded about the stage while we applauded in the appropriate places. And, as usual, Joy lost to TWO people who had platforms exhorting us all to love one another, help each other and to REACH OUT AND TOUCH.


I firmly believe, they were BOTH touched in the head.

With more and more accusations of prisoner mistreatment, torture and various groups demanding investigations amoung military prisons, it has caused me to wonder, is torture ever right?

In reality, the very sound of the word makes my blood run cold, but, is there ever a time when it is justifiable?

Take for example, the terrorist prisoners being held at various assundry prisons. These are not regular POW's, these are not soldiers who have identified themselves as the enemy by wearing a uniform and following the orders of a higher authority, they have no codes of conduct and no scruples. They have no problem using civilians, women and children as disguises. They do not seek out the enemy only, the will murder as many people as it takes for them to consider a job finished.

Just as spies and espionage agents are not treated under the rules of the Genova Convention, should these men be? They have, with their actions, indicated have a disregard for the rules of warfare and will not hesitate for any reason. In short, is their anu justifiable reason for them to be treated as soldiers when they are the farthest thing from them?


Do two wrongs make a right?

At moments like this, I really do like my job, yesterday, was a non-today moment. I am sitting here eating cheese curls, drinking diet coke and surfing Blog Explosion, reading posts like this that make me laugh until I spew cheese curls across the room.


And, there is a clean microwave taboot.

My darling sister, the sister who was never to marry so she could nanny all my children, the sister who swore she would never do such a foolish thing as marry, the sister who FOUR MONTHS AGO was single as ME. Actually, more single than, because she wasn't even DATING. Is now ring shopping. RING SHOPPING.


I am going to have nieces, nephews and Lord knows what else!

We start today, readying ourselves for tomorrow night. A evening of poise, beauty and talent. Actually, a evening where you wish you had a little flask to start nipping on. Paticularly the bit where someone starts singing "My Favorite Things."

Pageant Barbie is participating in yet ANOTHER evening of beads and sequins. Next weekend I think they even add feathers! In any event, let us hope, pray, beseech, implore that she wins.

If you are ever in the area, you have to come to one of these things. They are educational, entertaining, amusing and suicidal ALL AT ONCE! How clever. The stories I could tell and the scathing caractures I could amuse you with.


Come one, come all.

Attention Microwave Users:

Contrary to popular belief, the responsibility of keeping the radioactive machine in which you warm your lunches and snacks, is not in the job description of the payroll deparment. It is, in essence written into YOUR job description.

Yes, that is YOU.

We are not asking that you maintian a cleaning routine that would make your kitchen cupboards jealous. We are merely beseeching the constituents, yes, that is YOU, Microwave User, merely wipe up anything off the little glass tray that goes round and round as it warms your fattening vittles. If you do not do so, it hardens into something unbelievably wicked and is then, religated to the lowest on the Payroll Totem Pole.

If you find wiping too difficult, the little glass tray that goes round and round is also removable, for the convenience of you, the Microwave Using Constituents. (Some of you might not be familiar with this feature since you have never cleaned anything in your life.)



In case you have understood not a word I have written, in short: clean up after yourselves.

American Public, I implore you to STOP NAMING YOUR CHILDREN SARAH. Not only is it giving ME an idenity crisis, but your poor daughters will have a much higher risk of suicide than another child without such an abused name.

Sarah has been in the top ten names for approximentally fifty years, topping the list at number one for SEVERAL. Does anyone else not see the horror of this? PEOPLE BE CREATIVE! Your little cretins are looking up to you, even from the moment they are named. How can you then, with good conscience inspire them to creative thinking, when the very reminder of your lack in that department is staring right at you, on their HELLO MY NAME IS tag.


Besides, how many little princesses can we have in one little world?

I do believe, there is a certain amount of evil and hate immbedded in inanimate objects. Take for instance, the records boxes I was wrestling with this morning. They viciously lashed out and shredded my hose with their sharp and ugly corners. Also leaving me with bruises.


If they aren't part of the Axis of Evil, I don't know what is.

When I Googled my father's name this article came up. I laughed, because the descriptions of our family is priceless.


I had forgotten about this article, but it is worth reading. Again. Just for laughs.

This morning, a co-worker was trying to set me up with her brother-in-law, who happens to be twice my age, divorced once and generally odd. Anyway. She was extolling my virtues, and I didn't realize quite how wonderful I was. As she put it, I AM SUPERWOMAN!


Except, the little tights are unfeasible at the moment. So, ALMOST Superwoman!

I believe I am a special and unique person in that I am one of the few people, as a New Year's Resolution I promised no longer to agonize over the fate of my sister in marrying her boyfriend.

This Includes:

I am no longer allowed to despair about her fate when she is in the room, saying things like "It's your life, if you want to ruin it, be my guest!"

I will not send him terse emails with the subject line "You May Not Live To See Tomorrow"

I will stop perusing the yellow pages for Hitmen For Hire.

I will stop telling my sister her children will be unbelievably ugly, deformed and generally devoid of our lovely good looks if she choose to marry him. Instead, I will just beg her to consider the need for improving the gene pool.

I will stop making pointed references to the "wonderful opportunities for selling yourself as a mail order bride."

I will no longer start the Family Dinner Conversations with asking who will volunteer as a castration experiment.



But then again, people normally forget these things by the middle of January. RIGHT?

Someone said to me recently "You need to give up trying too hard and just do what makes you happy." On the surface, that seems quite innocuous, but when you think about it, why should it make YOU happy? What if what once made you happy, no longer makes you happy? Is your life a waste? What if you become one of those people who are HAPPY in their mediocrity?

Does this terrify anyone else? Of becoming a person who is so satisfied in being middle of the road, vaguely bland and happy to troll along in their sweet satisfied life of complacency? But, there is also the terror of pushing yourself too far, too hard and looking back on your life with a desire to have slowed down. CAN you push yourself to far?

When you work your whole life to get ahead, pause for one minute and lose your head start. THAT BRINGS YOU BACK TO THE REST OF THE MEDICORE PACK.


You know, I think I had best keep my thoughts to myself, because this really isn't making sense to anyone but me.

When given to periods of deep thought, they normally last anywhere from half an hour to a ENTIRE afternoon. This paticular session of thought has lasted much longer than even I would care to enjoy, but, it has been good for me.

It has caused me to ask myself questions such as, when is enough, ENOUGH? When have you pushed yourself hard enough? Is stress simply a way of handling pressure, so, if that is so, it is possible to never do TOO much?

I have, also considered, quitting blogging. Merely because I delight far too much in coming up with amusing things to spin into magical tales for my patient audience


I know these are random and haphazard. But, as of late, that has been my style of thinking.

My loyal readers who helped me secure the hope and promise of those hard earned flowers, I once again, need your help. You do not have to buy, beg or borrow anything. You need to lend me your appreciated opinion.

The author should have taken into consideration the fact she has very little spare time. Something you would have no idea of from reading her blog. The aforementioned Brad would be driving two hours each way to deliver the weeds I have been promised, thus, the author would need to be on hand for a evening of the enjoyment of the Flower Deliverer's company. Problem is, the author does not have a free evening for approximentally the next three months.

So, will the blog hoards cry out for flower blood before the three months is over? Should I try and meet him halfway? Should we skip delivery and just get flowers? Suggestions? Solutions?


I live such a complicated life.

Today was one of those days where you come early, stay late and don't take lunch. Somewhere in the middle of it all you are struck with the overwhelming desire to pour your scorched, bitter and generally vile Maxwell House coffee directly into your hard drive, merely so you can sit on your heels and cackle with triumph, marveling at the fact you are actually in control of something.

There were many interesting variables thrown in to make it a paticularly tiring day. But, from it, I have derived only one thing. I beg of you all, as a New Year's Resolution, if you work in close quarters with other people, DO NOT TALK WHILE YOU WORK. Do not whistle. Do not hum. DO NOT MAKE NOISE. Especially when people are trying to concentrate.


That said and done. I feel that my day has been worthwhile.

Let me assure you, I felt like quite the reprobate blogger when I did not post on New Year's day. But since I like to be different, I thought I would post a few days late.

I am not going to prattle of my New Year's resolutions, but will suffice to say that I have made some and will hopefully keep most of them. Hopefully.


In any event, I shall post something that refers to the non-drunken debauchery of New Year's, later.

I do believe, you all have rocked the vote and helped me earn my flowers! Thank you for your hard work. Pictures will be posted, I promise.

Just to clarify, Brad is not my boyfriend. At all. Actually, I have never met Brad. So, I think that kind of kills that rumor.

I can now proceed about my regular posting. With a special note to Jennifer who linked to help me out with this effort. Her link can be found on my sidebar.



Thanks again.