Until today, I had never eaten Fries and Gravy. I think it just SOUNDS nasty. Fried potatoes slithering around in gray goo.

But, I was informed it was quite the delicacy I was missing. Like deep fried twinkies, fried bananna and peanut butter sandwiches and funnel cakes? I think I am merely being saved from a heart attack.

I succumed. And tried it. As I thought, it was gross. But I can now say I have eaten another local delicacy.



Along with muskrat.

I would like to flatter myself and think that my three-day blogging hiatus was greatly noticed, prehaps even grieved, but since I cannot pull the wool over even MY own eyes, I will explain where I was to the casually interested reader. Even if they were wishing I were dead.

I will first set your worries aside. I did not run away and join the circus. Or run away and get married to TheNavyDudeWhoIAmSeriouslyConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled. Nor did I eat myself into a pork-rind induced oblivion. Or getting drunk of my haunches. (Do porkchops have haunches?) Porkchop spent her long weekend being very sick. Very sick. And cleaning the house. Porkchop is still sick, actually, but the rest of the office is out on vacation and sick, so she dragged her porky arse to work. I would like three gold stars, please!

The house is sparkling, I am coughing pitifully and the cookie tins are full.



Yes. That sums up my sad little weekend.

I read this article in Time and wanted to link to it, but they do not provide the full edition to read online, so here it is. Incredibly well-written and thought provoking, with a refreshing perspective from a non-religious magazine.


She went out for cigarettes.

That's my favorite detail of the story told by Ashley Smith. It was not a noble calling: it wasn't even a noble errand. But the craving for nicotine at 2 o'clock in the morning apparently led Smith into the loaded gun of one Brian Nichols, a man who was wanted for raping one woman and murdering another woman and three men. According to Smith, Nichols forced her into her aparment, tied her up, put her in the bathtub, and told her, "I'm not going to hurt you if you just do what I say."

What would you do under those circumstances? Scream? Panic? Beg? But at that point, something else intervened. Smith actually communicated with her captor. She says she saw him not as a monster but as a human being. She talked with him. She told her story--how her husband had been stabbed in a dispute and had died in her arms, how she then had developed a drug habit, had been caught for speeding and drunken driving, had been arrested for assault (the charges were dropped), had ceded custody of her young daughter to her aunt. She showed him her wounds as a human being. And she saw in that man his own wounded soul.

It would be politically correct to describe that encounter as a spiritual one. But it seems to me it was more than that. It was, in the minds and soulds of both human beings, an encounter with God. Smith's weapon, it appears was a hugely popular book, The Purpose Driven Life, by Rick Warren, an unabashedly Christian guide to making it through life's highs and lows by constantly asking what God has intended for you. The book is indeed a powerful one--precisely because it insist on the notion that God knows all of us intimately, especially sinners. Smith says she read from chapter 33, which centers on the role of Christian service, on the idea that in every moment there is a chance to serve others. "You can tell what they are by what they do" is one of the chapter's inscriptions from Matthew's Gospel.

Smith, blessed by what can only be called grace, saw that terrifyingly early morning in suburban Atlanta as one of those opportunities. Warren writes in that chapter, "Great opporunties to serve never last long. They pass quickly, sometimes never to return again. You may only get once chance to serve that person, so take advantace of that moment." Smith did. By her account, she talked to him, made breakfast, told him her story, listened. And as she reavealed her openness to grace, so, apparently, did he. "He said he thought I was an angel sent from God and that I was his sister and he was my brother in Christ and that I was lost, and God led him right to me," Smith sad. Maybe he was right.

We latch onto this story not just because it's a riveting end to a high-stakes manhunt. We find outselves transfixed and uplifted by the sordid ordinariness of it all. He was an alleged rapist and murderer. She was tied up in a bathtub, clinging to the wreckage of a life that was barely afloat. One was a monster, the other a woman unable to care for her 5-year-old, looking for cigarettes in the dark. And out of that came something, well, beautiful. He saw his purpose: to serve God in prison, to turn his life around, even as it may have been saturated in the blood and pain of others. She saw hers: to make that happen. These people weren't saints. Grace arrives, unannounced, in lives that least expect or deserve it.

I say that as a believer. The crimes Nichols is suspected of are inexcusable. The serenity of Smith is close to inexplicable. But the message of the Gospels is that God works with the crooked timber of human failure. That was an exceptional moment of redemption. But every day we have smaller, calmer chances to turn another's life around, to serve, to listen. How often do we simply not see what is in front of us? How often do we believe that the world's evils--from terrorism to crime to emotional cruelty--are beyond our capacity to change? Or that there is no one in front of us whom we can serve? Smith and Nichols' story is a chastening reminder that we may be wrong.

There's a line in a Leonard Cohen song that has always stayed with me. It kept me going in a bleak moment in my life, when I thought, as we all sometimes do, that I couldn't see how good could come out of the dark I have turned my life into. "Forget your perfect offering" Cohen advises. "There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in." Happy Easter.

--Andrew Sullivan

That you think I look goth.

I am sorry. Just because your sense of fashion is skewed does not mean that I am your latest fashion vocabularly victim. Just for the record, goth is so over, so out. Black is always in. And just because I wear it in copious amounts does not make me depressed.

Also, I know you meant it as a compliment, but saying "You wear lots of black to hide the figure you should be flauting!" is sweet, but unnecessary at the top of your lungs in the office.



One day you will wish you had paid attention to my valuable advice.

I don't know if patheticness is a word, but if it is, I am the embodiment of it. Come to think of it, I must also be the personification of laziness if I refuse to click over to dictionary.com and find out if the aforementioned word is living between the covers of Websters. I feel pretty safe saying it doesn't. Live there, I mean.

Besides the sad lack of knowledge in the vocabulary department, I am currently sitting in my office with the lights out, wrapped in my warm fur collared coat, sniffling pathetically. Mind you, the fur collar adds a nice Cruella DeVille/eskimo touch. Still debating which sad character I learn more towards.

I speak in hushed whispers and am playing uncharactaristically bland music. I sipped on my weak tea and merely played with my soup. (I thought denying food and drink as a whole would be a touch dramatic for ME and would be a little over-the-top.) But one musn't forget the occasional cough with the weak hand covering my face pathetically.



For those that are cruel enough to give me more work, they feel properly guilty.

To the coworker who brought me coffee upon hearing me complain about the vile concoction they CALL coffee down the hall.

But McDonalds doesn't really know what they are doing in the coffee department either.

In fact, as scared as I am to say it: I think OUR coffee is better.



Yes. It is that bad.

Just thought I would let you know, since you seem to be BLAMING ME THAT YOU HAVE TO STAND OUTSIDE IN THE RAIN.

It's pitiful. Really. But I managed to get myself to work and in the building without blaming my misfortune of getting caught in the rain on some POOR, SICK EMPLOYEE.

Do not glare at me. Do not mutter at me. Since you seem to think that I AM God, than that would logically mean:



Vengence is mine.

Our illustrious Top 40 radio station has contestants proving their excitement and dedication to winning tickets by singing ASHLEE SIMPSON OVER THE AIRWAVES. They couldn't pull them into a dark room, in the dead of the night while blaring something a bit more palitable.

No.

They pause all sound and have the poor hapless soul croak out a tune that Ashlee obviously can't sing.



So why should they?

The closest I can get to drinking on the job is eating as much of my cheese aged in port wine as possible.



Whatever happened to the two cocktail lunch?

First of all, if you would like to NOT SELL YOUR CAR, list it in the wrong year. Because you are young, blonde, stupid and generally slow.

Secondly, once you do sell it, preferably sell it to someone who does not trust you. Who squints their eyes suspiciously at them every time you talk to them. Also, make sure they barely speak English.

Thirdly, it would behoove you to drop the vehicle off in a ghetto neighborhood. Preferably the concrete jungle. Please take your best friend, so if your raped and murdered bodies are found, you will know you were in it together.

Fourthly, after arguing with the person to whom you are selling the car for a good twenty minutes, neglect to LOOK AT THE CHECK to make sure (since he is obviously FOREIGN to this country) he wrote it out correctly.

Fifthly, upon the discovery that the check was written out for the wrong amount, curl up into the fetal position and bawl. Until someone takes mercy upon you and assists you in the rest of life in general.



Being helpless is very perilous at times.

I used to enjoy listening to Josh Groban. After all, he does have a nice voice and sings a wide range of music.

This was before I knew he was gay, before I noticed that all his groupies were annoying (is there such a thing as non-annoying groupies?) and before I ever heard Katie Wolf perform it.

If you ever want a scarring association with this song, try watching a chunky "soprano" warble to what USED to be your favorite song. Clad in a maroon stretch velvet dress with gaudy gilt trim, everytime she would take a shrieking breath the results were left quivering all over the stage.

As she oozed out of her dress, waved her arms dramtically and scraped the high notes I thought "Why is it that people perform very, very famous songs by very, very talented people? Knowing perfectly well they will not be able to do it justice?". But I charitably clapped at the end of her performance hoping to never hear her sing that song again.

But, I did. When she collected the top talent award she crooned through another two minute rendition. TOP TALENT AWARD FOR SCREECHING OFF KEY IN A UGLY DRESS AND SCARRING ME FOR LIFE! There is truly no justice in this world.

To compoud the pain of my soul, everytime that song comes on the radio, my skin crawls, my ears bleed and I pray:



"Dear God, please strike her dead before Miss Delaware 2005."

His feelings for wanting to exterminate and forever wipe off the face of the earth certain demographics was understood with startling clarity this weekend. Except, I am not racist. I happen to currently carry a deep prejudice against twelve year olds.

Cheeky little buggers.

At first. I tried. Really. To be nice, to win them and do all those fun older sister things. I did not yell at them when they set off firecrackers at twelve at night. Even though the neighbors did. When I was woken Saturday morning by the heathens POUNDING THE LIFE OUT OF MY PIANO, I calmly turned over and went back to sleep. I did not yell at them for jumping on the furniture, nor did I tell them to go to bed at a certain time. I made them cookies and EVEN TOOK THEM TO GET THEIR ATV FIXED.

But, there is something about the belligerent phrase "WOMAN! Fix me some food!" coming out of the mouth of these ungrateful creatures that just didn't sit well with me. At first, I ignored it. Then, I gently corrected. THEN. I TOLD THEM I WOULD PELT THEM WITH COLD WAFFLES AND THAT WAS THE EXTENT OF MY CULINARY ENDEAVORS ON THEIR BEHALF.

I did resort to threatening physical violence. But it was well-deserved. And well received. They studiously avoided me FOR THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON.



Just goes to show: Hitler was right. A few well-placed threats go a long way.

I have a sweatshirt on. You cannot see down my shirt. No matter how hard you try.

I know a concept called "personal space" may be a bit foreign to you. But, my Daddy taught me to bite. Hard. So, I would watch it there if I were you. Bucko.

I never wear sweatshirts to work. First time ever, actually. It was an act of God that I woke up late this morning, so I did not dress as I usually would. That's right. Protecting me from your creepy, prying eyes.



So, consider this an act of God when I personally gouge your eyes out.

My father has been the fodder for many a amusing blog post. But, he loves it. I truly believe that is where my exhobitionist streak came from. If I have one, that is. If I don't have one, I am claiming one. RIGHT NOW.

He is, with my sisters, my biggest blog fan. He loves reading it and later discussing it with me. For the tricky emotional parts he doesn't understand, he calls his wife who then interprets. Really, we have this system down rather nicely now.

Yesterday he sent me this an email:

I love reading your blog. I love the screen name porkchop, says a lot about your self confidence.

He also requested that I post something regarding the vaccume cleaner saga. Up to this point, since I knew he frequented my blog, I have not written anything. But, as usual, he finds the ludicriousness of the situation SO compelling, (or is it my winsome charm?) that he cannot help but laugh.

For two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS, the vaccume cleaners have been clattering around in my vehicle like neglected children. I have considered naming them and giving them cute bonnots, but decided that could be interpreted as my "clock ticking" or other such nonsense.

For two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS, our floor has not been vaccumed. I was personally lobbying to have The Brothers pick up all the dirt off the floor. Much more productive than playing Xbox for oh, say, FOURTY-EIGHT HOURS.

But I digress.

I was supposed to drop these nameless children/vaccume cleaners off at the repair shop. Which I could not find. Which I am convinced is a drug front. Which happens to be three blocks from where I work.

Every day, I would come home from work and Dad would ask me a vaccume cleaner related question. Found the place yet? Dropped them off yet? WHEN ARE THE DAMNED FLOORS GOING TO BE CLEANED? With promises of "soon", "only a matter of time" and "HOW THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW" he was appeased. But I avoided the subject at all costs because I was forgetting, procrastinating and generally not making my poor vaccume cleaner children a priority in my life.

Two weeks. Read it: TWO WEEKS later. I have found the place. Yup. Situated a few blocks from where I work. It DOES look like a drug front. AND is never open.



Dad is very fearful for what kind of children I will produce.

The election is over.

Actually, it was over about four months ago. Counted, recounted AND EVERYTHING! (I realize that driving the Elantra is a full-time job and you might not have time for things like reading the newspaper or watching TV. So this is why I am kindly taking the time to tell you all this.)

Because we have reached this milestone, it means you can remove your very subtle, discreet and convincing bumper sticker.

John Kerry for President. Of FRANCE!!!


While I am at it, let me kindly point out that France is not having elections anytime soon either. So you might want to scrape it from your bumper (carefully, so you do not scratch your fabulous gunmetal paint job) and save it. For next election. When John Kerry runs again. But he might NOT run again, so you might NOT want to save it. Think slowly and carefully (nothing out of the ordinary, I will presume) before doing anything rash. Like crashingyouruglycartodestroyityouandyourbumpersticker.


Or you could just move, with John Kerry. TO FRANCE!!!

This is from the lady in my office who has a modified mullet and her hair is never the same shade of blonde. She wears a ring on every finger and at LEAST three necklaces in different metal tones and styles.

"What did you do to your hair? It looks HORRID! Like, fried and shit."



I did a little thing called STYLING IT.

I used to be a very competative child, but I have since sated to the demon the point where I do not find it necessary to be all FIRST AT THE STOPLIGHT! FIRST TO EAT A GOLDFISH LIVE! FIRST TO GRADUATE FROM COLLEGE! Because, frankly, the whole FIRST! thing was getting rather tiring. So now I pretend I don't care.

But, since I have recently be advised to "delight in the little things" I just thought I would share that I was FIRST! to finish my bottle of hand sanitizer.

Mainly owing to the fact I meticulously clean everything, doorknobs, safe doors, light plates and blue fingernails and have now started on my boss's bottle.



Thanks. Just thought I would remind you. FIRST!

This morning, I clash terribly. My outfit is a bit on the eclectic side to begin with. Tweed with green. I HAD to wear green because I refuse to be pinched by dirty old men.

But, last night I dyed Geek Childs hair blue. (He is rebelling against St. Patrick's Day in typical family form.) My fingernails are dyed blue.

BLUE.

I don't even WEAR colored nail polish, I find it tacky. More importantly, I have discovered it draws attention to the fact I always have, and always will have, short stumpy like fingernails. All those years of clipping them DOWN TO THE NAILBED for the sake of playing the piano.

So, my stumpy little nails are dyed blue. I have a GREEN shirt on. And various tweeds.

Did I mention that my hair is still in it's liger-like glory? Sort of a leprechaun red. With orangey-yellow streaks. Very liger like. VERY NOT COOL WITH THIS WHOLE OUTFIT.



Next thing you know I will be searching for searching for pots of gold, dancing JIGS and growing a beard.

so they were ALL OVER the place. like mold. only this mold had a tendency to bust out into random mini-cheers.


And people used to tell me ALL THE TIME, they thought I was a cheerleader.

Right now, I am stomping on the line that seperates a nervous breakdown and a bad day. Today has not been bad paticularly, but THE WHOLE FREAKING MONTH has been hellish.

Everytime our dippy Vice President comes by my desk with her saccrine voice trying to pry a bit of personal information out of me, steal a bit of my lunch or demonstrate HOW COLD HER HANDS ARE, I just want to BITE her. On the fleshy part of her fingers.

When the receptionist makes some uncharitable comment about my outfit/hair/state-of-sleeplesness, I want to tell her to SHOVE IT. AND SHOVE IT HARD!

The office manager tells me that I, out of ALL THE EMPLOYEES, have to cover the front desk over lunch, again. I fantasize telling her NO. NO DAMMIT. NO. I. WILL. NOT.

My immediate supervisor makes snarky comments about something I did not do, but has been conveniently blamed on me. I smile sweetly, thinking how she will get to take ALL THE BLAME when I leave.

People refuse to answer their phones, stay at their desks and generally do the sort of things that are required TO MAKE MONEY. For the few of us who DO stay at our desks, answer our phones and ACTUALLY WORK, it means we get to do ALL THEIR WORK, as well as our own.

People once they do answer their phones, SHOUT RIGHT INTO YOUR EAR, so not only do you permanently lose your hearing, but you entertain thoughts of murder, GORY MURDER, for these EAR DRUM SLAYERS.



I have invented myself a new job description. Contemplator of The Most Efficient Suicide Method.

The Great Parting of The Clothes has finally come to pass.

Up to this point, we have shared, for the most part, our clothing. Giving everyone the impression we have fabulous wardrobes. We don't. Well, I don't. VDOPrincess does. She somehow manages to constantly find time to shop. It is really quite disgusting.

There is the general sorting of clothes. Then there are the communal clothes that we all sort of wore, never taking the time to stake our claim. Or, the clothes that were ONE persons, but, they never wore that item. Someone else wore it. ALL THE TIME. So there is hemming and hawing. And quiet hurt feelings. But it is better to sacrifice for interest of peace. Do not be fooled. These items WILL come up in later spats. When someone is feeling unloved and ignored.

BUT YOU GOT THE WINE-COLORED CASHMERE SWEATER.

Cleaning and sorting does have benefits of course. I found my palm pilot, Barbie found her iPod and there were treasure troves of bobby pins.



And we still have all the hanging clothes, shoes and whateverisleftinthedrawers to sort.

I saw this bumper sticker and I laughed really, really hard. I told The Sisters and they were all "Okaaaay. Time to go take you medications sweetie!" So, they are now offically un-cool.

"Where are we going again? And why am I in this handbasket?"



I want a shirt that says that.

Last night at dinner:

Dad: So, Porkchop, did you get a ticket today?

Porkchop: (knowing perfectly well he had read my blog and was inquiring as such)No.

Dad: Yesterday?

Porkchop: No.

Dad: (beginning to get puzzled) The day BEFORE?

Porkchop: No.

Pageant Barbie: Um, Dad, that was FRIDAY. SO old news. And a few tickets ago.


A Few Days Ago:

Porkchop: By the way, just thought I would let you know I am going to NYC at the end of the month. Just in case you would be wondering where I went.

Dad: To do? Why?

Porkchop: ToSellMyBodyOnTheStreetsToPayForCollege

Dad: (ignores me)

Two minutes later

Dad: So why are you going to NYC?

Porkchop: ToSellMyBodyOnTheStreetsToPayForCollegeAndPrehapsExploreCareerOptions
InTheSkinIndustrySinceYouWillNotPayForCollege

Dad: (eyes widen slightly) *silence*


A Few Weeks Ago:

Driving down the road, Dad mentions something about the beauty of speeding on the road we live on. Straight, flat and no cops.

Porkchop: It makes it quite simple to find out the top speed for all our vehicles.

Dad: That IS true

Porkchop: A even BETTER place to speed is the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel, supposedly there are cops on there, but I never saw any.

Dad: Well, they won't stop you unless they REALLY have a reason.

Porkchop: I think 125 mph is a pretty good reason.



His one comfort is that I will one day have children. One day.

Giving a loud mouthed co-worker a glue stick instead of chapstick.

IF YOUR TO STUPID TO READ THE LABEL, YOU DESERVE TO HAVE YOUR LIPS GLUED SHUT.


In a perfect world, that is.

Purposely running the Orangey-Almost-Red-But-Not-Quite traffic light on the way to the bank. Again. Just to spite the mealy mouthed cop that lectured me on Friday.


TAKE THAT! AND THAT! I hope you feel ignored.

Not paticularly to men, though it has been conjectured before, but towards dieting. This weekend, I was on this FABULOUS diet that consisted of chugging saltwater, taking cayienne pills and drinking all the lemon/maple syrup water your tummy could hold. Fabulous. Yum.

I also spent the weekend being sick in bed. Wanting to vomit and die.

As I lied there, I thought of all the OTHER diets I had tried, besides Atkins and all those other COMMON, UNCREATIVE and CHILDISH diets, I recalled the apple cider vinegar diet which required me to drink copious amounts of the stuff. Which, in turn, made me lose my voice. Nice. There was the tea and crackers diet... all vegetables... all water... you get the idea.



So. One more diet scorned and tossed aside, a few thousand more to go.

I have found the most perfectly pathetic gift for the two twitterpaited love birds.


I don't think I have ever seen anything so ghastly and cheesy.

Just so everyone knows, Blogger can sometimes be a huge pain in the fleshy part of my buttocks.

Right now, for instance. All day, for instance.

I CANNOT POST COMMENTS!

There are incredibly witty people out there who NEED to READ my WORDS OF WISDOM. And Blogger is THWARTING MY DIVINE PLAN.



I feel cheated.

PageantBarbie: anything interesting happening to you today?

Porkchop: i just ran a red light. very much accidental. in front of a cop. my ticket is being written as we text.

PageantBarbie: *gasp* oh dear! did you bat your eyelashes?

Porkchop: i was/am to irritated. whatever.

PageantBarbie: as well you should be. in that case, did you flick him off?

Porkchop: restrained myself. what irritates me the most is the stpid lectures. it's like, you just GAVE me points AND a fine. SHUT YOUR MEALY PIE HOLE.

PageantBarbie: lol. true that, true. was he at least cute? or having a modicum of cuteness? (like that is a great consolation)

Porkchop. No! and while your at it, STOP TRYING TO BE ALL CHATTY MR. UGLY POLICEMAN.

PageantBarbie: lol. you should have tried to get a date out of it.

Porkchop: i was slightly ticked and flustered, didn't want to.

PageantBarbie: tsk, tsk, gotta work on that.

Porkchop: I AM TICKED. grrrr.

PageantBarbie: as well you should be! fancy that, any cop daring to ticket Le Porkchop!

Pageant Barbie: YOU'LL show him the CHOP in Porkchop

I know your not supposed to see your letters of recommendation, but thus far, they have all been showed to me and I have been quite pleased with the glowing accolades.

This letter, however, made my stomach kind of quiver. And wish for a sudden death. Included:

"She is passionate, sometimes allowing her passion to override her reason."

Mentions my blog as a creative outlet. MY BLOG! IN A RECOMMENDATION LETTER. IS THERE NO JUSTICE IN THIS WORLD?!

It also compares me to a HORSE. And cites the training needed for such a high-strung animal is also needed for me.


I think I should NOW say good-bye to college and go ahead and collect on a few of the less educated, and slightly demoralizing, job offers.

This morning, when I was in a state of complete undress, complete makeuplessness and barely awake, I was informed I needed to take Young Turtle Child to school. YTC goes to school a SOLID half hour away and we had one pit stop.

The poor child will never be the same.

As he tightly gripped his seatbelt, he asked if it was necessary to go QUITE THAT FAST while driving with my knees. Must I drive in such a fashion that people flick us off? AND FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE STOP PUTTING ON LIPSTICK.

In my driving, I decided I MUST get a Mini-Cooper to pass all those vile people on the shoulder. SO much easier. SO much more efficient. Get to school MUCH faster.



And then there was the cop I passed. Going twice the speed limit. It was a good morning.

Obviously, because we live in a small town and have too much time on our hands, the student body of the school my darling brother goes to has lots of time to insult one another on this message board.

Some very, very stupid child started this thread about Fredd. You can post anonymously, so go defend him. Be witty. But dumb sounding enough to be in high school.


For the love of Pork!

I have obtained a copy of the aforementioned Man-Who-Should-Date-A-Blonde-Version-Of-Me resume. Here are a few highlights for you to peruse to see if he is worthy of dating PageantBarbie.

Has been a bodyguard to Billy Grahmn, Whoopi Goldburg, Kevin Costner and Gloria Estafan.

Speaks fluent German.

Has Top Secret Clearance with the government.

Plays the organ and piano.


There are a bunch of other interesting facts, but I think he sounds diverse enough to date her. I am very much enjoying this whole having-the-upper-hand in screening people. Forget Googling people. This is SO much more fun.


Input?

A co-worker walked in here proclaiming she had found someone "who was PERFECT for me!" Only problem, he is a mere fourteen years older than me.

As she was speaking, she glanced at me, wrinkled her nose and remarked "well, he would be perfect for the blonde Sarah."



Since I am not longer The Blonde Sarah, we shall pass it along to the next sister.

Half of my desk is currently occupied by the liberal evidence of my meltdown. Wedged between Diet Coke and a oversized mug of coffee is Godiva chocolates. Occupanying that is a sea of crumpled kleenex.

I'm fine. Now.

After a month of mistakes upon MORE mistakes, there comes a point where you just, well, shut-your-office-door-and-bawl-your-bloody-eyes-out-until-you-have-not-a-speck-of-mascara-left.

And then, some well-meaning but unappreciated person opens your office door and then everyone is all "It's ok! You'll be fine! Take a break! Breath!" *pat, pat*

I was, truly, unconsolable. I called a very wise friend, who obviously knows me a little too well, or just females in general. I was advised to stop being a drama queen (me?! DRAMA QUEEN? HOW DARE THAT BE INSINUATED!) and to eat some chocolate, post haste. I did not want chocolate. NO!

After I was appropriate calmed down, I saw the wisdom in eating some Godiva. So, here I sit, properly calmed down, eating chocolate and generally feeling comforted. Just as a note: I don't even LIKE chocolate that much. Obviously, today is the fattening exception.


I feel like a complete and total cliche. Which I very well might be. But at least I have ceased hyperventalating.

Yes. That would be us. The sisters.

Last night, I succumbed to the invitation for Chinese food, even though it was from the very place that made me violently ill on General Tso's Chicken, and we painted, ate Chinese food and were generally very odd. Though, I don't know if we should say we were ODD since we are ALWAYS like that.

Since I cannot be trusted with a paintbrush (past experience has taught them I might paint obscenities on the wall that takes COATS and COATS of paint to erase) I was given the job of caulking and removing outlet covers. I am quite adept at caulking, if I do say so myself, and quickly took to caulking holes in the walls, pieholes and any other available orifices. Was very fun indeed.

As the paint fumes grew stronger, ventilation become more inconsistent and more of our faithful friends joined us, we grew more and more unpredictable.

At one point, PageantBarbie was demonstrating how small llama children could get the walls dirty. Complete with drooling tougnue and arm-waving. I started shrieking out the lyrics to every single song that came to mind. Mostly consisting of Sunday School songs from around the age of five. VDOPrincess was busy trying to bodypaint everyone.

And that was only the beginning...

If you want to see us in our element. In the state that gives us plenty of blog fodder, you should come.



DO it.

My fortune, that is.

For the second time in a MONTH I have gotten a fortune cookie with no fortune in it. How strange/random/creepy is that?

Whenever I say that, people look at me weird (THAT is real unusual) and inform me they have NEVER gotten a fortune cookie with no fortune.

Thanks for making me feel like a freak of nature. Next time your in a burning building, I will SO not save you.

While, I suppose I could say this means I determine my own future, it could also mean I am going to die or I have a very empty future ahead of me.



All prospects look cheery.

Miss Character USA Investigative Reporting has been published on X-er.


Does this mean that I am a published author?

The Early Morning Gods seem to have missed their calling in life. I think they would be well suited to life as drill instructors.

"YOU THINK THAT YOU, YOU LITTLE WEASLY PIECE OF DIRT, ARE WORTHY TO GET MORE THAN TWO HOURS OF SLEEP IN MY ARMY? THINK AGAIN! GETUP. NOW! PUSHUPS. NOW! DON'T EVEN THINK ABOUT SLEEP UNTIL YOU LEAVE MY ARMY!"



And people wonder why I am the way I am.

I would like to give myself a cookie/goldstar/whateverelseIhappentodeserve for purchasing something ALL BY MYSELF. No deliberation. No sister advice. No second thoughts. I. Just. Bought. It.

And, it was the perfume that I was waffling over. AND it was in a UGLY bottle. (I have a dreadful habit of refusing to buy perfume I like if it happens to be packaged in a bottle I do not like.)

This is living proof that I am becoming un-vain and decisive.



What next? New religion? New haircolor? New man?

Ironically enough, the day that my boss is sitting in my office contemplating suicide by slitting her wrists with my letter opener labeled "Sarah's Preferred Instrument of Death and Destruction", I am sitting in her office trying to chirp out words of encouragement. Phrases like:

Don't kill yourself!

I am SURE you will not get fired, maybe just get a cut in pay!

You WILL live to see tomorrow. Otherwise I have to do all the work by myself.


You know it is bad when I, the self-avowed pessamist, is considered the upbeat one. But then again, there WAS a time, a very long time ago, that I was a morning person, was not dependant on coffee and only made mean comments BEHIND people's backs.

The moral of the story is: if you aren't willing to change. Stick with it. Your coworkers eventually will. Or your enviroment.


Or everyone will just kill themselves..

This weekend, I invested my time wisely in a little retail therapy. I DID need clothes and managed to get a few cute pieces without giving myself a guilt complex for a month.

As I was shopping, I was reminded that I need new perfume. While this might not seem so difficult, perfume buying is a incredibly involved experience for me. Namely, because most perfumes, once I wear them, do not smell anything like their origional state in the bottle. Hence, I can only try one perfume on at a time. This can, and has, dragged perfume buying out for weeks.

Besides, I cannot wear anything super-flowery or super-girly they all tend to gravitate towards the smell of baby powder once I put them on. There is more to it than the perfume smelling good on you, it is about the image you are portraying. Since smell is the sense most closely related to memory, the choice of your perfume is of grave importance. I would prefer not to be remembered as a cheap hooker, but, that is only MY preference.

So, right now, I am debating between a mere seven perfumes and am completely at my wits end as a decision is concerned.



Why, oh why, does life have to be so hard?

Yesterday, after driving two hours to The Agency, I was informed they only needed my help for an hour and a half.

I was ticked.

Rather than spend the rest of the day aimlessly wandering around upper Delaware, I dragged myself home and invested in a few good hours of sleep.

Then, I was off to the beauty pageant to watch Pageant Barbie give away her 2004 title.

Two beauty events in one day. I would like to say it didn't effect me, but, I must be dreadfully honest and admit one model/blonde moment I had yesterday.

In the TWO HOUR drive up to the agency, I was happily driving along, talking on my phone and eating my breakfast. (Very bad of me I know, I actually ATE!) When I drive, I tend to forget that people can actually see in my car and see ME. Singing, eating, or whatever else I feel so led of God at the moment to do.

As I was eating my most delicious breakfast, I realized I had NO NAPKINS in the car. None. Zilch. Nada.

Not wanting to get my sticky fingers on my clothes/upholstry/hair I was carefully licking them. Disgusting, I know, but please bear in mind that I was completely forgetful that people can see in my car. Until, I glanced over in the left lane to see that my finger-licking was to the delight of a TRUCKFUL of construction workers. Not just one, or two, but what seemed like fifty. Demonstrating their enjoyment, nonetheless, by making obscene gestures.


It was a long two hour drive.

The Agency called me, again. They would like for me to do hair and makeup for a photo shoot, again. I said yes, again.

Mainly because I have had a HORRID week, and frankly, it couldn't get any worse. So, I might as well finish off this fabulous week of being miserable.

Besides, if properly provoked, I will draw and quarter the twits with the sharpness of my wit and quickness of the toungue.

Most of you are thinking WHY THE HELL ARE YOU GOING BACK? ARE YOU A GLUTTON FOR PUNISHMENT? Surveys show that, yes, I am. So that answers THAT question.

One day, when I am incredibly smart (one day!) and wildly successful they will at least be able to say "HEY! I remember her! She was the fat kid who loved cake!"



There you have it. Yes, I am glutton for things other than punishment.

The disrespecting piece of equipment known as my phone has decided to grace us with it's presence once again. (It is a wonder someone hasn't actually named it.)

I did not attempt to give it mouth-to-mouth or even try electrocuting life back into it. Instead in a very logical and thought out plan, I threw it against the wall.

While you might be scoffing at my impulsiveness, I can disregard your disgust for my emotional outburst since it DID decide to work again.

Prehaps I should go work for Verizon Tech Support. Sharing my advice and love with all those around me.


I have found my calling in life. HURLING THINGS AGAINST THE WALL.

Instead of investing in the much-needed therapist as I have been repeatedly advised, I have come up with a much quicker and easier method.

Send someone a voicemail. Do not CALL them and send them a voicemail. Go into your voicemail and send it to them. Vent. Scream. Cry. Talk reallyreally fast.

Before actually SENDING it, listen to it. As you hear how incredibly stupid you sound, there is no way in the free world you will actually send it to that person.

Delete it.



It is quite theraputic. I tried it.



It works especially great if your voice sounds as bad recorded as mine does. I sound like a certain person who seriously irritates me.

Oakbrook, IL-- At the insistence of the contestants in the Miss Character USA contest, IBLP is publicizing contestant scores, and disclosing all judging notes, scoring sheets and anything else involved in the competative process.

The controversy was sparked when straight-haired brunette contestants complained that every contestant in the Top Ten was blond with soft, flowing curls past the waist. Miss Character USA-Washington commented "When I noticed all the blond-haired girls were winning, I felt a check in my spirit. I am not trying to thwart God's plan, but in Washington it rains most of the year, so I cannot stand outside and
have the God-given-sun enhance my hair!"

When the Miss Character USA headquarters was contacted, they released the following statement.

"We are in no way suggesting these young ladies take matters into their own hands and change God's design, but we have found it to be true that blonde hair draws attention to the brightness of the eyes and curls bring attention to a radiant countenance. Perhaps the less spirtual girls may want to consider enhancing God's design with a few subtle highlights."

One pageant official who asked to remain anonymous commented, "I don't know if discrimination was involved or not, but this year's top ten truly was a thrilling, marvelous sight."

The brunette contestants and their parents are filing a lawsuit for discrimination, libel and emotional damage.



This is investigative reporting in accordance with X-er's origional article.

I hate it when people copy other people's posts. But, this is what I am reduced to.

My charming sister made me my fabulous new header, of course, it needed new colors, which I managed to muddle about and figure out. Though, only with much help from the Child Genius. (I freely give you their links so you can harass them and beg for help.)

However, no one can figure out how to get rid of that wretched blue box or even chang the color. Or how to change that nasty orange line to red. Or a few other questions I have.

So, if there is anyone out there who knows something, nay, ANYTHING. Please, I beg of you, let me know.



Until then, my poor blog looks like a half-dressed child. Or half-naked. However you prefer to look at it.


I may even resort to bribery. Name. Your. Price.

My cell phone has been repossesed by demons. Not just posessed, mind you, but reposessed.

It has been known to have fits of irresponsibility, emotional meltdowns and flings with the dark side. But it has completely gone over the edge.

I can HEAR it ring and I can HEAR myself recieved text messages. But, I CANNOT answer it. My keypad and my screen are frozen.

Dead.

Not having my cell phone is worse than not having arms and legs. It. Is. My. Lifeline.

Today has been atrocious and up to this point I have managed to hold off on the nervous breakdown, the floodgates of tears, the fits of anger, but I CAN NO LONGER.


My life is pitiful.

Slam middle finger in closing file drawer. Proceed to show everyone your on-the-job injury.



This works. I tried it.

This morning, I walked out to my Minivan Which Brings All The Boys To The Yard, only to discover another hubcab was missing.

Terrific.

Since I worked eleven and a half hours straight yesterday and anything over seven and a half is considered working WAY TO HARD, I took the liberty of being half an hour late to work this morning.

In that spare half hour I dropped of dry cleaning and was supposed to drop off two malfunctioning vaccum cleaner's. Except I had no idea where the vaccum cleaner repair shop was. After I cruised around for a bit, I decided it was fruitless and went to work.

Where I discovered that I have a hole in my stockings the size of a small state. I knew getting dressed this morning was to easy. And my favorite tweed skirt, which I wore today, has decided to start degenerating. While I am still wearing it.

And I have to work all day with a person I do not only loathe, but despise.



Let the games begin.

When I asked Dave if he thought that the anonymous comment on the previous post was accurate he informed me:

"If someone thinks that by you responding the way you did to that guy is misleading, than they should be thrown in prison and they can let someone be forward with them."

For those of you who remember, around Christmas there were a few proposals of marriage and such folly. Since then, one of the woefully mislead suitors (though I think that is being entirely to generous with the term suitor) has begged me to marry him continually. He has tried flying me out to Hawaii, offered me "the world" and a myriad of other things.

To say the least, I am not interested. I have told him point blank, subtly, loudly, quietly, nicely, rudely (quite a few times) and even yelled it at him. I have ceased answering my phone when he calls. It is getting a little ridiculous.

But. He persists. He wants me to marry him and bear his children. SO tempting, let me tell you.

This morning, after sleeping fitfully for a number of reasons including floods and temper tantrums, my phone beeps. Telling me I have a text message.

NavyGuyWhoIAmConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled: Good morning beautiful wife of mine.

NavyGuyWhoIAmConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled: I know you hear me. Don't hide!

Porkchop: I am not your wife, nor do I intend to be. Please go eff yourself.

NavyGuyWhoIAmConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled: What is up your ass?

Porkchop: In case you didn't received the first message. I am not your wife, nor do I intend to be.

NavyGuyWhoIAmConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled: So? Lighten up a little bit.

Porkchop: This isn't funny. I AM SERIOUS.

NavyGuyWhoIAmConsideringGettingProfessionallyKilled: Oh. Well. Stop sending mixed signals.




Mixed signals. I am speechless.

Yup. That and my diaper bags.

Oh, wait! I don't have children, I am not supposed to be carrying those around yet. Nor should I be driving a minivan for that matter.

In any event, for the past while I have HAVE been driving a minivan for various assundry reasons. It did, occasionally come in handy. You really have no idea of the capacity of these things until you start smuggling illegal immigrants around, hauling dead bodies to the dump and packing in the crack whores.

Now that I have listed it for sale, finially, I walk outside this morning to see a hubcab missing.

Of course.

Now, why could it not have disappeared BEFORE I placed the ad? Instead, the very morning after, IT JUST VANISHES.



There is nothing sexier than a three-hubcapped minivan. It's better than YOURS.