Tonight I was rifling through old pictures. Yes. Can we all say SCARY! on the count of three?

Scary.

Scary.

Scary.

My darling sister is obsessed with taking pictures. Before the glories of digital camera's were introduced to our family, the child would literally go through rolls of film a week. Guess who was her willing model?

Vain little me.

Ah. This has come back to bite me in the proverbial butt as I see the boxes and boxes of pictures we have of me posing. In the trees. In the dirt. On the tractor. Flying like an angel. Making demon faces. Eating. Sleeping. Staring.

Somewhere along the line, I understood prehaps it wasn't so fabulous to constantly have your pictures taken. So the visual trail thins a bit, but is still there. As I was flicking through these pictures, I was cringing. Not necessarily over the annoying fake smiles, or the bad outfits, or the doubles chins, but mostly the bad hair. WHAT IN THE NAME OF PORK WERE MY SISTERS THINKING?

Ok. So they were trying to give me a little artistic license. But that should have been revoked, just like the Nudist Colony's artistic license was revoked. Both equally hidious.

Whenever I had long hair IT WAS THE SAME FREAKING STYLE. Over the past, say, six years. And then I would go extreme and chop it off in a awful bob. AND THE COLOR! I had odd red, streaky blonde and horrible brunette. And of course we cannot forget the ghastly pink.

Some of the outfits were bad, but the hair distracted from them, by far. I did, also stumble across a few pictures that were of MONUMENTAL embarassment to me for years. Now, I can actually laugh. Sort of. But I still wonder what actually possesed me to ALLOW them to take a picture of me, from the ground, in Daisy Duke shorts with platform shoes.


I can learn from the follies of youth. Or wish that my legs were still that thin.

I know I did not say anything on my blog about this. I was hesitant to dash your illusions of virute, honor and perfection, but the time has come for you to know the truth. I am a reckless law-breaker. I had my license suspended three months ago.

Origonally I didn't mention it because I didn't want Dad to find out. Not that it would have mattered, but I was saving myself a few hours in lectures. My dear Mom didn't know that I had conveniently forgotten to mention it to him, So, it was of course, brought up in conversation. Most likely, she was verbally flogging him for his bad example. Anyway.

But I am now sharing this with you so you can rejoice that today is my last day on suspension. How terrific is that? While some of you might be smirking since you know I have been driving anyway, I can drive now without the mortal fear I will be stopped and thrown in jail. Though I am sure that would be a terribly enlightening experience.


So, here is to life in the fast lane again!



Just in case you were wondering, my transgression was going 91 in a 55. Not drunk driving as I am sure you were thinking.

The early morning Gods and I have reached a peaceful pact. Up to this point from this point known as EMG enjoyed waking people up before the sun came up. Obstensibly to clean the house, I think more just to watch people walk around in a foggy daze doing unpredictable things.

Well, EMG and I chatted and I convinced him that it is QUITE possible to clean the house at night. Actually, much easier since you do not have little drones messing up everything you cleaned all day.

He gets his clean house. I get my sleep. Here I sit. One happy camper.



Apparently, for today, I can have my cake and eat it too.

Because I am sitting here, in such sheer boredom, I have succumbed for the first time in my blogging life to using a stupid form thing. Someone did it to me.

Mock me. Ridicule me. Whatever. I'm game.

The Official rules of the Interview-Game

1. If you want to participate, leave a comment below saying "interview me."
2. I will respond by asking you five questions - each person's will be different.
3. You will update your journal/blog with the answers to the questions.
4. You will include this explanation and an offer to interview others in the same post.
5. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions
6. I will answer reasonable follow up questions if you leave a comment.


1) Why the name "Porkchop"?

Because, I have porky chops. Or chubby cheeks. Or a delightful baby face, depending on who you ask. Actually, a blog reader coined that name, and it just kinda works, for now.

2) Being a young professional, what excites you most about growing old: retirement, wrinkles, or dealing with young whipper snappers trying to take away your job?

Being able to lord seniority over the young upstarts. Which I am right now. Retiring and eating twinkies for life.

3)What really ticks you off everytime?

Lots of things. That is going to be my next list, 100 Pet Peeves. Driving slow, people who pick their noses, cold french fries, lukwarm milk, guys who don't have enough spine to ask you out.

4) Who was your "first love", where is he now, and do you even care?

My first love, was Phillip... I don't remember his last name. Three years old, kissing in Sunday School behind the door. I was a real charmer and the boys loved me. Don't ask what happened.

In a very ironic twist of fate, I believe he is now joining the Marines, but am not sure. I haven't seen him since I was told it is not appropriate to kiss boys. You would be shocked to find out how long I believed that. And no, Porkchop The Cold Piggy Hearted does not care. Even at three, I would use little boy's hearts and toss them rudely aside once their kisses were depleted.

5) What is your theory on why the ozone layer is shrinking, and do you think Hollywood's captivation with hair gel has anything to do with it?

I believe that the ozone layer is shrinking in horror. Plain hair gel is the most disgusting thing next to mousse and of course, bear grease. Really, with all the lovely hair products we have now, MUST you use plain hair gel. Be creative. Think outside the box. Give yourself a swirly.

I spent my two hours off in sweet solitude at Barnes and Noble, finishing a very interesting book that I had started awhile back.

I felt luxurious, lazy and downright frivilous, but it was fabulous.



Besides, I still get to take off next week to go to the postponed meeting.

This morning, I am at the front desk.

Apparently I was forewarned about this, but I forgot. I also forgot my cell phone, which means I am sitting at the front desk, with nothing to do. I cannot text people, I cannot listen to my opera, I cannot be interesting. I have to sit. Here. With the only feasible vaguely amusing event being surfing the internet on a really, really slow connection.

Today is SO not looking bright.

I could, however, in my spare time, compose my love in the form of sonnets and love songs for my cell phone. While I do not actually love my phone, I love the company it brings me and the funny messages people send me which make me laugh.

It feels like a part of my has been left behind. A hand. A finger. My virtual mouth. I FEEL NAKED. I FEEL ALONE. I FEEL DESERTED BY SOCIETY IN GENERAL.



Nevermind this is my fault for smoking weed and wiping out my short term memory.

I was scheduled to go to a meeting regarding college that is about three hours away. So ,I was going to leave work around two thirty. Since we had to turn in our timecards yesterday, I marked that down accordingly.

It is snowing. Heavily. The meeting has been canceled.

There is no way in the free world I am going to work and not get paid for it. I know, I am a selfish little bugger.

I emailed my illustrious sister asking for suggestions, since I was like a prisoner set free, Ihad this whole HALF of a afternoon to spend in my delight and indulgence and no clue what to do. Her words of wisdom:

"Hmm. The possibilities...you could go home and sleep. You could go to Barnes and Noble. You could go shopping. You could go visit Stefanie. You could lie naked on the floor waving your feet in the air. The possibilities are endless."



I love living in a free country. Naked foot waving and all.

I would highly recommend Technorati. It allows you to see everyone who links, or has linked to you.

So you can feel profoundly grateful.

If you use StatCounter, which is a incredibly nifty tool, but does not go terribly far back. Technorati can be used in conjunction and shows you everyone who has ever linked. Ever. So you can hunt them down and kiss their feet.

To all those people who linked to me and I had no idea, thank you much. Very much.



I will spare you the hunting down and kissing of feet. You'll thank me, really.

Well, the news has offically been broken to everyone that I will be leaving for college. Soon.

They are lamenting. Weeping. Wailing. Tomorrow they are all wearing black. (For which I am delighted, they could all use a little touch-up in the slimming-chic department.)

In all seriousness. I did see a few glistening tears.

Prehaps I can turn those tears into something more interesting. Like a going-away party. Or, the priviledge of not coming to work, but still getting paid.



This has some serious potential.

The Jealous Cow has started a blog. Read all about her exciting life here.

Apparently, she knows I have a blog, but does not have the address, since she called me from the front desk to get help. Setting. Up. Her. Blog.

So now I know the address.



I am not liable for brain meltdown.

I walked into work this morning, and the dearest, sweetest, most Christian lady I work with, informed me that I look like a Apache Dancer.

Seeing the rather quizzical look on my face and hearing me ask if there were unseen feathers on my outfit, or even war paint, she explained that they are some sort of exotic dancer from the sixties. In her eyes, a great compliment.

Apparently, they wear black and white striped shirts, lots of red lipstick, black chokers and fishnets. I am lacking the fishnets and red lipstick, but they have made an appearance before.

Upon Googling it I found the description of the typical Apache dance "The plot is of a French underworld character (the Apache; possibly a pimp in this case) asking his woman (possibly a prostitute) for money. She refuses, he slaps her around for awhile, and eventually drags her into a dance--curiously enough, a waltz rather than a tango."


Nice. Maybe I should look into new career options and just skip college as a whole?

I am a Lifetime Member of the Bloodbank.

Doesn't that sound important? Sounds very offical. Very I-Will-Be-Given-A-Cookie-Before-You. All it means is that if I am ever near death, or if Fredd ever takes up knife throwing again, and I go the hospital and bleed like a stuck pig, they won't charge me for blood. Nifty, eh?

It also means that they have my cell phone number and call me incessently begging me to donate my precious plasma, platelets and diseases to the people of the East Coast. I would like to say I have a rather rare blood type, but I don't. I just happen to have the universal blood type. (In case anyone out there wanted to murder me, you know what to tell them when you dump me at the hospital steps.)

So, I finally went in to give blood, since they have been calling me for about a month. The residing nurse happened to be someone I went to school with a few months ago. A FEW MONTHS AGO AND SHE IS STICKING A FRICKING NEEDLE IN MY ARM.

I gently told her that the last nurse who had stuck me, had to do it twice, something I was less than pleased about, so, as she stuck me, she commented "Oh, your vein moved!" My vein did not move, your HAND moved.

After I endured fifteen minutes of EXCRUCIATING pain, bled all over my bandage and had the little old ladies stuff me full of Cheeze-It's and other thing, I went home, only to discover I had a huge bruise that was growing. From the stupid nurse who couldn't stick me properly.

So, next time you happen to be dying at the hospital, and are given a blood transfusion, please remember all the pain and agony I went through to help insure that you lived.


A long and frickin' healthy life.

I have decided this.

Mainly because a bunch of paperwork that I had been waiting for, with bated breath, has finially come through.

Also, because I managed not to laugh out loud at the lady in Wal-Mart this morning who was orange. And I mean Sunkist Orange. With white blond hair. And stirrup pants. Yes, this is fashion at it's finest.

And, the cop who followed me all the way to work, had no just cause to stop me. So he didn't. And I was chuckling in evil tones. THEY HAVE BEEN TWARTED AGAIN.

I have rearranged my office yet again, and now that I have it in such a manner that I actually like, I will be leaving soon. Makes perfect sense.



And that's the way the cookie crumbles!

I didn't realize it. Honestly.

I ate a sandwich that had a piece of very processed, plastic-like cheese on it. FIE UPON ME!


I believe this is the part where someone offer to give me fifty stripes with a wet noodle on the naked eyeball.

I must admit, I tend to procrastinate. I know, you never would have guessed! In any event, I really wasn't trying to push deadlines this time, but am now hanging by a verious tedious thread as I wait for different papers to come through, in time to submit to college.

Did I mention I am not a very patient person?



This is very harmful to my health.

I had a sudden craving for cupcakes. Good ones. With lots of frosting. I never eat cupcakes

My stomach feels as if it is going to eat itself.

My skin is developing a orange pallor from all the baby carrots.

I find myself dreaming of those really weird unhealthy foods that I like. Don't ask.



Anyone for a speck of pity?

My sister. Words have been invented to try and describe women like her. Perfect. Angelic. Those sort of things. But sadly, they (being men and words) have all fallen short.

In the recent developments that The World Is Her Future, my father thought he would help me set feasible goals for myself. Since the world could be my oyster with a few tweakings of behavior. I.E. I should work harder, study harder, eat my vegetables, drink my milk and go to bed on time, just to name a few.

The lastest aspiration that is being suggested: Become a Rhoads Scholar.

Yes.

Right up there with my goals of flossing regularly, drinking more water and hopefully actually graduating college.

Faithful blog readers, remind me every now and again, will you? You know, just so I don't forget and all that sort of nonsense. And, perish the thought, THE WORLD WOULD NOT BE MY OYSTER.



Dammit. I'll just be a clam.

In light of the fact I have vowed not to eat dairy and sugar for, well, a long time or until I go out of my mind. And, in light of the fact I live with a very skinny Pageant Barbie, I have been for the past four days subsisting off protein bars and diet coke.

Not a very healthy combination.

Today, I decided to kick things up a notch and add baby carrots to the mix. Plus a little cold coffee with some non-dairy creamer. And then, a few veggie chips for lunch.

The culinary delights in my life never cease to amaze me.

If you find me curled up on my office floor, my cheeks full of carrots like a not-so-adorable rabbit and my stomach hurling in rebellion:


Don't say I didn't warn you.

I have chills. I am dizzy. My appetite has dropped dramatically (HIGHLY unusual). My hands are cold. My head is warm. I think I have the flu.

Or I am in love.

But to be in love I need someone TO love. Any volunteers? I do not relish the thought of being sick in bed all weekend.



Someone love me and send me flowers and then I will be all better.

The first year I went to college, was, in short, hellish.

It was the first time I had gone to "real" school, first time I had a "real" job, my parents were getting divorced, I was taking care of home, I was engaged to an ASSHOLE and generally frazzled.

I would get up at frickin' five thirty in the morning to a job I hated and get off at two in the afternoon or later. Come home, clean the house and fix dinner. Go to school until a ungodly hour (I was falling asleep at this point) and then I would study and write papers until the wee hours of the morning.

I would reguarly doze off at the wheel.

I hated my major and got terrible grades, hence, now that I am trying to get into a decent college with a completely unrelated major, and things weren't looking to bright. But, I believe I have a chance at getting into Regent which is a decent college, in DC no less.

I am very happy.

And this was a very boring post.



But please be happy for me anyway.

Ladies. And. Gentlemen. The Princess. Has Arrived.

I have my very own fan club.

It was started by a rather creative and thoroughly researched stalker. Make sure you check out the links.

I think this goes on my Interesting Things About Me list. A definate first among The Sisters. But The Sister fan club spot is still open, as well as The Sister's Offical Stalker.



We are still reviewing applications.

The President of the company is a big fan of my biting office memo's. I do believe, he is alone in that fan club, but that is neither here nor there.

I was just informed, much to the horror and chagrin of those who read my blog, he would like me to start ghost writing different articles for the paper, press releases and that sort of thing.

I know, you are sitting there and every glaring comma, screaming apostrophe and superfluous adjective is jumping off the page right now. Very much IN YOUR FACE. Begging for their lives and the good of mankind.

But here I sit, cackling gleefully, rubbing my hands together and stringing together sentances of biting, ascerbic and hateful phrases. Mocking your helplessness as you contemplate calling up the paper and unsuscribing, RIGHT NOW.


Watch out world, I have been unleashed.

Since I have started resembling a piglet rather than a Porkchop, I have offically eliminated dairy and sugar from my diet. And once I get my fill of carbs, I will actually have to start eating sort of healthily.


Let's see just how long this lasts.

In the spirit of creating interesting happenings, I filed my taxes ALL BY MYSELF.

I know your thinking, umm, you work in accounting/payroll/accounts recievable/whatever, WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM? Trust me, I am a very troubled individual and confused. And while it might not seems so fascinating at this present moment, give it a month or two. When those men in black suits come knocking on my door, flashing badges and dragging me away, you can laugh heartily.


But please remember, it was for the sake of writing material on my blog.

Last night the Jealous Cow came over so I could trim her hair.

Conventinetly, I could not find the haircutting scissors, so, being rather resourceful, I cut her hair. With craft scissors.

The brightly colored kind. With the blunt ends. Of course I acted as if everyday I easily snip people's hair like it was a school project.



While I might not have created more excitment for myself, I am sure in the days to come her hairstyling will be QUITE exciting.

I have noticed an alarming, yet almost comforing, trend in all the blogs I read.

Everyone is having just as much of a boring life as I am. For the moment, anyway.

Must be the time of year, must be the lack of sleep or it must be the inability to go to the beach and get hit on by drunk guys.

So, this has driven me to the logical conclusion that I need to do something interesting in order to have something to write about and fuel my amusement for the next few months.

Suggestions? Fire away. But I am not repeating the belly-button piercing (still have the scar), the lesbian pink hair (still growing it out) or the tattoo on my butt (still scrubbing hard in the shower).



Anyone up for a little group suicide?

I assure you the reason my writings have assumed such a lethargic and generally dull state is merely because my brain has been fried on crack.

Yup. You heard it from me first.

Ok. So maybe it is a TINY bit closer to lack of sleep than crack, but someone is bound to say such a thing, so I thought I would say it first. I'm clever like that, thank you very much.

Once I catch up on my sleep, I am sure my life will become vastly more exciting and I just won't be able to stop writing.



Until then, I'll just keep smoking.

Where you would sell your Grandmother, your soul and any small children you found lying around for a cup of pure caffeine.


I really do make Baby Jesus cry.

An insanely gorgeous, likeminded friend of mine who is also single this Valentine's Day gave me the quick remedy for those who ask why I am single:

"No man deserves to be as happy as I would make him."



I assure you, my self esteem has not been suffering as of late. Just in case you had not noticed.

Princess's Mr. Man has proven to be quite charming this time around, definately garnering himself a few well-deserved brownie points.

He told me that he thought I had lost weight, completely out of the blue. A sure-fire way to make me instantly love you and talk about you on my blog.

He brought the flowers which had been delivered to my home, to my office. So, my flowers are now sitting proudly on my desk, guarding me from the Jealous Cow.



Let's just hope these brownie points are spiked. With something.

Today, is going to be one very long day.

Prehaps, it is because I work with fourteen, count 'em, FOURTEEN not single women. Who, coincidentally, think today is the best day of the rest of their lives.

Prehaps, it is because I had to stop at three, count 'em, t-h-r-e-e stores before being able to find the much needed Starbucks Doubleshots to get my morning off into a nice caffeinated depression.

Prehaps, it is because while I was in the stores, this charming little man who was trying to be quite nice, told me "as pretty as I was, I was going to make someone have a VERY happy Valentine's Day." To which I cheerfully informed him that no one was going to be made happy by ME today. He frowned and puzzled over this for a moment and declared it "just wrong." While I concur entirely, I simply told him "life isn't fair."

Prehaps, it is because I cannot even EAT Valentine's Day cookies without biting holes in the side of my mouth. It's a sign. No depression eating today. Will cheerfully inbibe caffeine until I hyperventalate and twitch my way into oblivion.



Drink up, whatever you can chug down without being completely obvious to the rest of your coworker's and have a HAPPY Valentine's Day.

My boss, bless her dear heart (I am practicing being southern,) has a mother, who not only calls ten and twelve times a day, but visits at least once.

This practice is not necessarily looked down upon since we have a very laid-back work place. For that matter, most everyone here takes personal calls, quite frequently on their business line.

Frequently, my boss is away from her desk, well, allot of people in the department are away from their desks frequently, so I end up handling their calls. Half the time, it is family members who are NOT content to leave a message. No. I must go find them. RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!

This is not once a day. This is several times, over and over. Things like "You got a letter in the mail." Or, "Your out of milk."

My boss, once her mother has called, normally feels the need for a stress-relieving smoke. Predictably, Miss Mother calls her back, THE MOMENT SHE STEPS OUT THE DOOR. So, I sweetly promise to pass along the message and HANG UP AS FAST AS I CAN.

My boss will not call Miss Mother back.

So, this is a endless cycle. At first, it wasn't so bad, but it seems every time I turn around, my phone is ringing and it is MISS MOTHER CALLING.

And this is only ONE of the people whose phone I end up answering. Someone, somewhere feel sorry for me. I think this would be the first time in my life I would lobby for corperate policy against personal phone calls on company time.


Or she could just pitch a tent in the middle of our office space. That should solve things nicely.

The old boyfriend who Revolting Recollections was written about, calls me up this morning, all chatty.

First off, I hate chatty people, especially when I am working. Secondly, last time time I heard from him he told me he had a girlfriend, so I was really hoping I wouldn't be hearing from him, ever again. I was nice, but reserved.

He calls me to tell me he is going to Europe next summer. While you might think I am merely jealous that Redneck Boy gets to go to Europe where he will have absolutely no apprecation for any of it, I am biting my cheeks to refrain from laughing at the thought of HIM in Europe. I even choked down the evil comment of telling him that "It is much easier to just buy imported beer here, rather than going ALL they way over there to drink beer from a fake stein." I am SUCH a nice person.

In his visit, I am sure it will only solidify Europe's view of Americans as backwards country folk.



I think they need to be a bit more selective in granting passports.

Because the Google query of "Getting Married at Dunkin Donut" only brings up one result. My blog.

I am so insanely clever! Why didn't someone else think of it first! Getting married in the most disgusting coffee place, EVER!



Though, I won't complain since it DID bring one visitor to my blog.

My career as a Taxi Girl is over. Almost. While I do not have to drive the second sister to the airport tonight, I still have to pick up sister one from the train station Sunday.

I did managed to get sister one to the train station last night, minus the checkered stockings and yellow slicker. I also managed to get myself horribly lost in the slums of Wilmington, at least I THINK it was Wilmington, but honestly, I was a bit confused when I finially arrived on the main highway and it said "Welcome to Wilmington." But, I didn't think I would stop and ask.

My drive home was rather uneventful, save the fact I thought I was going to get stopped on my suspended license, even though I was driving with a radar detector. That right there, is a whole story in and of itself, the suspended license that is.

In any event, since I no longer have to play taxi girl, I now get to prepare for this weekend's guests.



Let the games begin!

The Front Desk Jealous Cow, has yet again, managed to sustain some sort of odd injury or sickness AND CALL IN SICK. This might not be quite so frustrating if she did not pull this stunt at LEAST once every other week. Bare minimum.

For awhile, I was bluntly refusing to fill in for her, mainly because I was getting behind on my work, but, since we are SEVERELY short-staffed today and some other overworked person was going to have to fill in, I sweetly said I would. For a little bit. Merely because, around here, it doesn't matter how important your job is, or how urgent, they pretend front desk is so FRICKIN' important. Our Vice President has covered it. That is not equal opportunity that is INSANE. I digress. FOUR HOURS LATER, Sarah sits at the front desk mentally going over the list of things she has to do before she leaves early today. I AM SO GOING OUT OF MY MIND. I am on the verge of a serious fit of anger, nay, sheer thirst for the blood of Jealous Cows.



Not only am I very upset, I am hungry taboot. Hungry for hamburger.

I have been drafted to spend my Thursday evening, Friday evening and Sunday morning doing airport/train station runs. While that sounds simple, this entails two-three hour drives EACH WAY.

I want to have a shiny yellow rain coat with checkered stockings just for the plain and simple fact I think I need them so I can be perfectly in costume. And then, I might never be asked to make Transportation Runs, EVER AGAIN. I really don't mind, I just mind the long drive back BY MYSELF. Not just BY MYSELF, but ALL BY MYSELF. Trust me, talking to yourself, especially when you find yourself completely unamusing, gets old, FAST.

I really cannot complain, because these sisters that are deserting me over Valentine's Day weekend, would take ME to the airport if I had someplace to escape to, but I don't. I would, however, like to take a brief moment to pat myself on the back since neither of them had to bribe OR guilt trip me into taking them to their desired transportation venue.



I AM SUCH A NICE PERSON. I SO deserve a cooky. Or, chocolate. Or, flowers. Or, ALL OF THE ABOVE.

There was no fortune in my Fortune Cooky.

Does that mean I have NO luck? Or just a absence of GOOD luck? Or does it mean I will be plagued with hundreds of children under the age of three?


I am very worried.

Upon trying repeatedly to collect on a invoice that is overdue from a North Carolina company and recieving the same belligerent response from the sweet-talking SOUTHERN GENTLEMAN, I took matters into my own hands.

As I investigated, one of our branch managers kept defending his unprofessional demeanor, saying it was MY fault, when I clearly had the paperwork that outlined HE DID NOT PAY ME.

I poked. I prodded. And I found out far more than I wanted. The branch manager had a long running affair with this client. OF COURSE! What a bloody brilliant idea! SLEEP WITH THE VENDORS SO THEY DON'T PAY THEIR INVOICES.

Please note: this branch manager is old, ugly, smokes and has the world's most grating voice.



Just how low do YOU go so you don't pay your bills?

Last night was the longest night ever.

Poor Pageant Barbie has contracted the flu only a few days before she is supposed to be leaving for New York. I, being the kind, lovely and noble sister that I am, stayed up with her all night, arranging covers, giving her warm rags, keeping her warm, giving her my blankets, filling up her water bottle and assiting her in vomiting. Yes, too much information.

I really did not mind, whatsoever. Joy, when she is sick, is one of those people whom you do not MIND helping merely because they are so pitiful looking. And, you are quite sure, this will be the last time you EVER see her because she is HELL BENT on death.

In the moments where I tried to sleep it was thwarted with wet hair and not enough blankets. So, this morning, not only do I have bad hair, I have a stuffy nose, headache, dark circles under my eyes and a very short temper.



Pray for the mere mortals that stumble across my way.

Just recieved phone call from Verity. My usual advisor is in China and the person who is filling in for him tried very hard to sound forlorn, distraught and sad that I was leaving. Instead, it sounded a bit more like she was talking into a bucket.

I said something sweet and poignant like I will miss all the wonderful people and their encouragement and the monthy emails reminding me to PLEASE UPDATE, DAMMIT. I briefly thought about crying big purple elephant tears since this chapter in my life is over, but thought the best of it.



I now feel deliciously light and free.

Between sexy/trashy/tacky/vulgar was not only blurred with this ad, but completely trampled and disregarded.

They are heartbroken because this ad was not aired twice, but I personally, maybe only because I am a woman, found it incredibly annoying, poorly made and downright stupid. It's claim to fame being that it was poking fun at the wardrobe malfunction last year.



If your going to mock something, at least make sure it's FUNNY.

If being single is not bad enough over Valentine's Day, the problem is compounded when A Certain Sister offers you up on the Alter of Blind Dates to the Merciless Gods of Death and Destruction On Dates With Strangers.

You heard me.

My kind sister, who has two admirers visiting over Valentine's Day weekend, has deserted me in favor of New York City. Not that I blame her for choosing NYC, but I will ,for quite some time hold a grudge against her.

She has given me vague instructions like, GO TO THE FIREHALL DANCE. Does anyone but me realize quite how unspeakably hokey that is? So, in true form, I have recruited yet another single friend to help me entertain. The highlight of the weekend is having to drive up to Wilmington to pick My Kind Sister up.



I do not believe that even the balm of Flower Whoring would even heal this injury of pride.

I do believe, I get a cookie. Or a gold star. At least a WILKIE BUTTON!

I watched the Super Bowl. The whole freaking thing. Including the half-time show, pre-game show and all the stupid commercials. I even managed to cheer when "my" team would make touchdowns.

We will ignore the small fact the only reason I found a team to cheer for was because their quarterback was rather good looking and I knew someone I despised was cheering for the Eagles.

So, I am shallow, but at least I had the strength of character to make it through such a debacle.


I think I get an extra football-shaped star in my crown in heaven

This weekend, upon doing some shopping with a friend, I stumbled across the source of All Fashion Crimes. Coldwater Creek. I cannot, no matter how eloquent my words, describe to you the astute horror that hangs from the racks of this store. I believe their designers are washed-up Pet Clothing Designers. Their masterful creations include, but are not limited to:

KNIT capri pants with embroidery at the ankles. ELASTICISED.

Coats with very, very fake shearling. Think nappy polar fleece.

Paisley pants. Need I say more?

Shirts that make you want to upholster your sofa, IN THE VERY SAME MATERIAL.

It was truly more than my soul could bear, all my senses cried out in protest. WHERE IS YOUR DIGNITY? WHY ARE YOU HERE? PLEASE JUST GOUGE YOUR EYES OUT AND MAKE US ALL HAPPIER.



If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out...

While it may have not been the most politically correct way to say it; the man does have a point.

"You go into Afghanistan, you got guys who slap women around for five years because they didn't wear a veil. You know, guys like that ain't got no manhood left anyway. So it's a hell of a lot of fun to shoot them."

Did people actually THINK guys joined the Marines to sit in their squad bay's and play cards?

A person I consider incredibly witty, gorgeous and like-minded found this clothing line. Stating it was made JUST FOR US.


I couldn't agree more. I think I should buy stock when it goes public.

Upon hearing that I am considering changing my major to journalism, one of my sisters tactfully suggested that I read Gregg's, The Elements of Style and the Lively Art of Writing. Citing that I sprinkle the comma's a bit too liberally.

Thank you, very much, I just want to make sure, that everyone knows, what I am talking about, is there anything wrong with that? Is, this, making anyone else, slightly aggravated?

perhaps. I will start. Being one of those people. Who likes periods. Allot. Allot. Allot. It. Makes. You. Feel. Like. You. Are. Riding. In. A. Car. With. A. Person. Who. Likes. To. Pump. The. Brakes. Allot. Allot. Allot. And. It. Gives. You. A. Headache. What. Fun!. See my nifty. Extra Period?

BUT THEN AGAIN, I AM SO INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT THAT I SHOULD USE CAPITALS ALL THE TIME SO EVERYONE KNOWS I AM A PSYCHOTIC ANGRY PERSON WHO NEEDS TO BE HEARD. RIGHT NOW, DAMMIT!

or then again what is the point of capitalization grammar or even slight punctuation it simply cramps my style and this way i feel like emily dickonson or incredibly brilliant like ee cummings except i cannot rhyme if my life depended on it

Trailing off at the ends of my sentences... or even in the middle of them, for that matter... makes me feel like a indecisive dishrag... but is a tool that is much fun to annoy people with... Watch me trail... Like a slug... Who drank too much water...


All this to say: IT,... COULD,... be,... WORSE,... DAMMIT!..




I am actually looking to hone my writing skills and am quite grateful for the suggestions. Please feel free to tell me where I can improve or if you have any other useful tools that I might find helpful.

Last night, the majority of my kick boxing lesson was spent hugging my porcelean friend. The rest of it was spent on the verge of passing out or huddled on the floor in pain. There were a few moments spent doing an outrageaous workout and glaring fiercly at the instructor, who, after learning that my frequent trips off the mat were not for beauty touch-ups, felt quite sorry for me.

Did I mention my bum knee has started acting up as well? This whole working-out thing is SO not happening.


May I be buried by my sweet porcelean friend.

So they do not tell you such things as "your new glasses make you look awful" and nobly inform you that your butt is very "smackable."

Add ten years to this child and I cannot wait to see the vengeance Of God inflicted on his mother for her rather sassy days of youth. When God said "vengeance is mine" He forgot to mention the minute detail that this paticular brand of vengeance would last for years and years in the form of small gingerbread colored children with very large mouths.



Revenge is sweet.

For once, I am not being facecious. Last night, I had four children under the age of seven, making a quadruple batch of cookies and we had an absolute blast.

I love being the nice Auntie who lets them do whatever their hearts desire and then send them home, filled with caffeine and sugar to their mothers who quickly withdraw any sort of gratefulness they had extended.

Four spoons, eight hands, globs of cookie dough everywhere, mouth spewing chocolate chips and the children were sneezing, coughing, hacking and stirring with their hands which had been only God Knows Where.

And I am feeding them to my unsuspecting coworkers who think it is just charming that I would spend an evening with small children in such constructive activities.



Perhaps, I have found my calling in life. Using small children to unwittingly kill people.

Obviously. The markers affected me more than I thought.

Sarah. Do. Not. Post. When. High.

For clarification's sake, Blogger kept giving me error messages, my new posts wouldn't load and it was being VILE. Logical Conclusion: I had to rewrite it, twice.

Your right. I do have too much time on my hands. Or they are just afraid of me, so very afraid that they don't want to give me more work.


What a brilliant plan! BRING ON THE MARKERS!

Today has been a monumental day. I have realized that in a past life, I was a Paint Sniffing Addict, or worse. But for the sake of my future children and children's children, we will leave it at the addict bit. Please, dear Grandchildren, do not think I stumbled upon this information purposely, I was merely a victim of my own circumstances and was a Big Enough Person to acknowledge it. My inner and deeper urges have finally crept out FOR ALL TO SEE THEM.

This morning, I brought in a few small objects that needed to be spray painted. Not wanting them or the paint to freeze, I carefully unfolded newspapers and laid them out on my office floor. I proceeded to spray paint not one, but FOUR SMALL OBJECTS. In a confined space. Without ventilation. Like I was some sort of Air Filtering Goddess. Can someone tell me WHAT THE HELL I WAS THINKING?

This little testimonial has Drug Addict Red Flags plastered ALL OVER IT. Since I am such a neurotic control freak, why would I allow newspapers to be spread on my office floor? Or SPRAY PAINT used in my office? Why would I ALLOW myself to get the world's biggest headache?

I am not sure if this is my lungs or my subconscious, but something is screaming SARAH NEEDS HELP, SARAH NEEDS HELP, SARAH NEEDS HELP and running around in little circles.



Perhaps I will save myself the inquisitions later by breaking into my Giant Marker Supply.

Last night, Laura and I, in the spirit of emjoying public humiliation, went to kickboxing lessons.

My first revulsion to this whole scheme was the fact our instructor looked like a old boyfriend, who I am paticularly annoyed with at the present moment, but this, like other boyfriend annoyances, will soon fade I am quite sure.

Laura and I, were at best, pathetic. Since we were both so amazingly unathletic, uncoordinated, and I am bordering on DYSLEXIC because I cannot even MIRROR people, the instructor wisely paired us together.

Only problem being we were cracking hilarious comments and trying very hard to concentrate and beat each other. The situation was compounded by the fact our instructor has a crush on Laura, so he would NOT LEAVE US THE BLOODY HELL ALONE. Laura, who was actually catching on quite nicely, was recieving all the attention. Sarah, who was on the verge of tears and whose punches closely resembled the flailings of a newborn, was ignored and forgotten.




Mental Note: To improve myself kickboxing skills, must get a snazzy velour pants like Laura's.

To call and scream at me with such violence and hatred that it forces me to make a paper voodoo doll of you and rip your head off. And I never even met you. Yelling at me from the get-go is not conducive to getting your way. If your going to shriek, let me at least do something to provoke you.

Besides, I came perilously close to succumbing to the intense desire to slam my office door shut, turn my music up and yell all sorts of colorful phrases at my walls, about someone I have never met.




There is absolutely no need to push me into a Unknown World of Unprofessionalism, over SOMEONE I HAVE NEVER MET.

Starting from a dare, a very long time ago, Pageant Barbie is just that, PAGEANT Barbie. In a month, she will be giving away her crown and for some unknown reason, Princess and I are participating in the pageant just for the stupid factor.

Make that the Stupid Embarassing So Incredibly Shameful I Will Never Leave The House Again Factor. Complete with lifetime scarring so I will never wear a swimsuit again.

We will have fun, but the preparing, starving, dreading and all that goes with it, is not so fun. Especially the bit where you have to wear a swimsuit, in the dead of winter, in front of a crowd of STRANGERS. If it were friends it would be worse. This is the one event The Fan Club CANNOT attend.

I have two prayers. First, please Dear God, do not let either of us win, that means Miss Delaware. Second, may every mean comment I have said in watching twelve pageants past, not come back to haunt me.




And one last thing, may Pageant Barbie not see this as a time for payback.