This afternoon, as I was reading blogs, drinking diet coke and trying to look cute busily working, I get a call from a sheepish Barbie.

PB: Um, Porkchop?

PC: Yes, love?

PB: We (being she and the hot friend who flew in from far away to escort her to some pageant gathering) are in Washington DC and kind of can't find a place to park. Could you Google something up?

PC: Sure. One sec

Seconds pass.... Do you know how hard it is to simply "find parking" in downtown DC near Consitution Ave.?

More minutes pass... she hands the phone to Hot Friend since she is, in true family form, concentrating on her extreme driving skills.

HF: Er. I am very scared.

PC: She's driving a bit wild? Don't worry! She has my radar detector (especially lent for the occasion, even if they are rather illegal in VA) so you will be fine.

HF: She just ran a red light. Radar detectors don't help you with that.

PC: True. (At this point, I hear horns honking madly in the background and PB cackling merrily with her success.)

I finially find a parking garage and instruct them where to go after they have pinpointed their location for me.

PB: So turn RIGHT on to New York Avenue.

HF: (relays to Joy) So we should turn around...

PC: Wait! You said you just crossed Pennsylvania WHY ARE YOU TURNING AROUND? I am so confused. WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?

HF: We found it. I think. One second.

PB: I can't find the entrance!

HF: Maybe if we circled the building?

I wait. Pensively. We cannot find the entrance? Am I related to this woman? It's a PARKING GARAGE!

I hear a squeal in the background.

HF: Yes! We found it! Good to go! Thanks a million.

PC: Anytime...

I really think I should start announcing this everytime I pull out onto the road. I have become the local shuttle for (thankfully) inanimate objects. Sisters give me this to take here... mother gives me that to take there... father wants me to drop this off...

Thanks to there diligent efforts, my once clean car (CAR, not truck. Not farm truck for hauling half the world) now contains:

• A bottle of bleach
• A bucket of Timet. (That would be deadly rat poison that can kill people if they breathe it. Yes. It is sitting, open, in my car.)
• A flowered shoe organizer
• A vaccume cleaner (which enjoys slithering about and beating against the doors.)
• A cardboard box large enough to house a family of four
• A huge basket of nail polishes and facial exfoliators
• A extra tote bag, with one black high heel in it
• Two tires, neatly sitting on my seat, with extra hubcaps

Please be considerate of your fellow passengers and do not vomit as we quickly turn corners, weave through traffic and skid through red lights.

Airelee nominated me to do that charming little blog equivalent of a chain letter. And, since I am never one to rock the boat, I shall carry on. This list, is as follows.

If I could be a scientist...
If I could be a farmer...
If I could be a musician...
If I could be a doctor...
If I could be a painter...
If I could be a gardener...
If I could be a missionary...
If I could be a chef...
If I could be an architect...
If I could be a linguist...
If I could be a psychologist...
If I could be a librarian...
If I could be an athlete...
If I could be a lawyer...
If I could be an innkeeper...
If I could be a professor...
If I could be a writer...
If I could be a backup dancer...
If I could be a llama-rider...
If I could be a bonnie pirate...
If I could be a midget stripper...
If I could be a proctologist...
If I could be a TV-Chat Show host...
If I could be a Lapidary...
If I could be President of Ansi...
If I could be an Archeologist...
If I could be Amish...

If I could be a painter... I would start this fabulous art trend, which involved rolling your body in paint and various paintable textiles and then hurling your body against a canvas. Creating hideously ugly and useless life-sized paintings. They would be all the rage, very valuable, completely brilliant and I would remembered as the modern Picasso.

If I could be Amish... I would use those deceptively innocent children to farm my fields of marijuana. Who would ever suspect? I would it grow in between my rows of vegetables and it would be completely innocuous. All the money I made (peddling my special blend in the rural hills of PA) I would use to pimp my buggy out. It would be sweet. (I might want to first research if women are allowed to own their own buggies. I know for a fact women's lib isn't looked to kindly on there...) If I was caught, I would say I was growing it for medical reasons: giving a little relief to my twenty-seven dying aunts and uncles and to hook my thirty-three children at a early age into slave labor on The Farm.

If I could be a psychologist... I would be incredibly renowned. The patients would not be allowed to talk. I would be given an hour a week to tell them how selfish/screwed up/irritating they were. They would then be ordered to volunteer three years of their life to a worthy cause. And to stop being such sniveling asses.

If I could be a llama-rider... I would ride across America. Funding my journey by occasionally shaving the llama and selling it's wool. I would also do llama riding tricks. And if THAT wasn't lucrative, we would be a llama/trainer stripping team.

If I could be a doctor... I would be a plastic surgeon. And I would perform surgery on people I thought were worthy, only to have secretly given them fat implants. I would make fat the new skinny.


I nominate Queen-Of-Slackers, Sandy and Joy. No one is going to make you, but just think about your little children hooked on marijuana. And then say no. Do it. I dare you.

Does anyone else have those family members who, upon spending excess of .5 hours with them, prompts the urge to put a gun to your head and end it all.

After spending three hours with this relative I was ready to drive off a cliff, or at least into a telephone pole.

Upon my arrival at the birthday part to eat SPIDERMAN cake and have my tounge turn blue, my eyes were glazed over and I had lost the ability to make rational decisions regarding the continuation of my life. My father, who is normally amused at my rantings and ravings, was even starting to get a little concerned.



Thankfully, my sisters were on hand to pry the pills and vodka out of my hands, wipe the blood off my wrists and put salve on the rope burn around my neck.

The coworker who discovered my blog (Hi Joannie!) buzzed me this morning to say:

If you never do anything with your life, you can always write. Your a good writer. You need a column.



RIGHT-O. I will be Ann Coulter without the skanky dresses, perpetual roots and smeared lipstick.

That is what my little (SIZE TWO) coworker asked.

No.

Are you suuuuuuuuure?

Yes.

I proceeded to launch into a tirade regarding small people who diet, loudly, and make the rest of us feel fatter.

I would take consolation in the fact that someone commented this morning that it looks as if I am losing weight, but I am chalking that up to the fact I am wearing mostly black.

And I will despair in the fact my boobs are growing. Again. I really should consider touring with the circus. Much better than the Fat Lady Tent, we will have the Girl With The Boobs That Never Stop Growing.


I wonder why I attract freaks...

Tonight, as I was cleaning out my room and rummaging through the attic it was washing over me in a flood of startling clarity what dorks we are were. It doesn't help that a certain sister felt the need to document this fact on roll after roll of film. We ourselves so completely amusing we could just take lots and LOTS of pictures of ourselves!

Paticularly embarassing ones of me include:

Me dancing on the countertops in celebration of the fact I was no longer soley responsible for doing the mountains of dishes in the house since we now had a dishwasher.

Me in all my blonde-haired, make-uped and trying-to-be-cool self as a camp counselor to all these bratty little heathen children.

Paticularly depressing ones of me include:

Pictures of me, at the beach, when I was skinny. Tangible proof that it IS POSSIBLE for me to look good in a bathing suit.

Oh yeah. I had a eating disorder then. Whatever. All for the sake of a good cause. Those were good times.


Perhaps I should consider taking that eating disorder up again, since I will need to be living the life of a starving college student. Good times ahead.

The only problem with that plan is that Joannie, The Coworker, has found my blog. (Hi! Joannie!) And if I DID burn the building down, I would want to report it for the amusement of my blog readers. And then she would read about it. And then, my whole plan of blaming it on the faulty wiring in my phone, which also allows me to randomly blank out of phone conversations, would be foiled.

All day, I have been a half a step away from chewing out a paticular department which enjoys changing things at their own whim, without telling me. This has prompted a longing to strangle them all until their cute little eyes pop from their heads. Then, slamming my door shut and hurling object against the wall. Including, but not limited to: red pens, manilla file folders, a stapler, my instant hand sanitizer and loud obscenities.

I also managed to gouge my knee on my charming little keyboard tray and draw blood, but not run my hose. Is that a freak of nature or what?

Today's events have prompted my inner desire to write a song title:


The Story of Porkchop: Boo Friggity Hoo.

Not that you all WANTED to know that I had to sell my first and second-born children to the kind folks at IKEA to properly furnish my room. Wait! I don't have children yet. And if God reads this, He probably won't LET me have children. (Interestingly enough, recently I dreamt I had a child and couldn't figure out what to name her. Four months later. The child still had no name.)

Also. My blog comments are almost fixed. They are still being a little bit dorky. If I have more than two comments in Haloscan, things start stacking on top of each other and looking quite odd. But other than that, comment away!

Sadly. That is it. Weekend recap in full. With the quick side note to the people who were driving in front of me this morning with the I (heart) Horses bumper sticker. You don't need the sticker. The clods of manures, stacks of straw and saddles that were thrown in the back, said it all.



So, until I blow up the building, kill someone or tragically burn my eyelashes off, I will remain, yours truly:

The Porkchop

The shopping trip was incredibly productive... but I must now actually FINISH my room so I can make it look beautiful.

Until then, I will be silent, or I will never get any work done.

I should be finished tonight. Hopefully!

So I have rather been procrastinating about this whole painting thing. A little here, half a coat there, but I have been painting alone and I HATE THAT. Nothing worse than getting high by yourself.

But. Here I sit. Finished the second wall coat. Am motivating to finish the second trim coat and PAINT THE CEILING. Only problem, I might run out of paint before I get to the ceiling, and I don't think the Home Depot Gods would magically open the doors, mix the paint and check me out quite this late.

I must finish. My arms are burning from rolling miles of walls. My eyes are burning from painting dripping into them. MY HEAD IS BURNING BECAUSE I WANT SLEEP!

You may ask, why the hurry to finish when you have a lovely Saturday laying out before you? Open. Inviting. Saying--please paint today! Please lay your lovely flat white paint upon my ugly walls!

Tomorrow, er, today, I must go get furniture and actually put it in my room. And remove the mattresses, bureaus and bedding that is littering the rest of the house.



Right. So, OFF TO WORK!

I can have my cake and eat it too. Apparently.

Once again, I was rescued by my little brother. Who, with hard work and diligence, helped me keep my blogger comments, delete my trackbacks and make haloscan behave.

Thanks little brother.

And to Blue, for emailing me pages of code that was supposed to be inserted into my template somehow. In case you had not yet figured this out, I am rather, um, shall we say challenged? when it comes to techinical matters of the blog.


So thanks, many, many thanks to those who helped.

Haloscan commenting and trackback have been added to this blog.

YES! IT ADDED ITSELF AND ERASED ALL MY COMMENTS. It did not tell me it was going to do this. I hate it already.

It mentioned something about saving a back-up of my blog if I did not like it? Is this true? Can I get my comments back?

I have the last... 300? comments in my email, which I, myself, could manually post if I have to. But I really didn't want to lose all those comments.



Someone. Please. Help me. I am begging for mercy.

May you die and burn in hell
May all your tan skin fall off and your eyelashes melt
May your toenails become deformed
May you never wear heels again, leaving you to have a non-perky butt.
May your hips spread to be the size of a dam
And may diet coke be poison to your lips.
And most of all, dear Barbie, may you be given a life of obesity and unwashedness, while wearing belly shirts.


And thus ended the poetry writing career of Porkchop, that just started and ended.

The end.

A temporary boyfriend for rent/hire/borrowing.

I am painting my room (with my clothes on!) by myself and the progress is painfully slow. First of all, I hate doing things by myself. Secondly, I am not very tall, so hauling ladders and stools about gets time consuming. Thirdly, my loyal troop of sisters who would normally be helping me, are very consumed with the business of wedding planning and slum lording.

So. I just need him for... two days? And then I will happily return him, or dump his painted corpse into the river.

While this might sound too good to be true, it isn't! If you are looking to get rid of a pesky boyfriend, stalker, brother or whatever else, THIS IS YOUR CHANCE! The more the merrier!



Call now. Limited time offer. Exclusions apply.

Do you think that is a good essay title? I have had to fill out five hundred and thirty different college applications. Because I am a transfer student, that involves pulling transcripts from two different colleges, filling out the applications, writing out the essay PLUS finding all my high-school crap.

So, I have this one last essay I am supposed to write, to the college I am actually going to go to. I know I will get in if I simply WRITE THIS FREAKING ESSAY. But, since I have had writers block for the past week, it has been nigh to impossible. They have offered me three lovely options to write about:


Life-Changing Experiences
While at UD, a student will study on a foreign continent, conduct undergraduate research with a faculty mentor, or give back to the community through a service learning project. Some will do all of the above. With each new experience, comes a new discovery about oneself and the world. Tell us about something you have experienced that may have changed your life or simply led you to a new understanding.

My sisters used to stuff me in the corner and feed me glasses of lemon juice...which is why I am the way I am.

or

When I was very young, I decided to jump out of my high-chair onto the brick floor, which would explain the drop from a 4.0 to my current GPA. Yes, I can say that my life has been changed.

Your Heritage
We asked you to check a box that represented how you are most comfortable describing yourself. We recognize, of course, that your ethnic heritage is far more complex than is understood by just checking a box. We invite you to share with us more detail on how your ethnic/cultural or multicultural heritage may play a role in shaping your view of the world.

I am the product of Amish rebels... which is why you might find me driving tractors nekkid. I am rebelling against their stringent modesty and lack of electricity...

or

My grandfather, who shaped who I am today, even if I was a mature six weeks old when he died, used to shoot at my grandmother's feet to make her dance when he was drunk... you might ask, how could this influence me? It has given me a caliber of behavior to aspire to...

Imagine
Can you imagine reading over 22,000 application essays? Last year, we did just that. This year, rather than giving you another specific question to answer, we are inviting you to use your imagination. Surprise us. Entertain us. Mind your manners, of course, but make us appreciate your clever and engaging essay. We'll thank you later.

Dear Entrance Committee--Your right, I cannot imagine reading twenty-two thousand essays. Your jobs truly suck. Actually, as people, I am sure to have such a sucky job, it could be fairly said that you all are the suckiest sucks that ever sucked...

or

Blogging changed my life... I used to think I was weird until I met all these people JUST LIKE ME and I realized. YES! I have found my family at last! I was left on the doorstep and lied to about it for my entire life, but all that doesn't matter anymore! Because we are family... and drive tractors nekkid together.


Any better ideas?

And yes, I thought about it. SINCE I WAS PAINTING BY MYSELF. And am tired of getting paint on various clothes. But then, I prudently realized if I were to paint my room in my underwear, my neighbors would be able to see me. And this charming (cough, cough) old man who lives next to me kind of has this nasty habit of staring... whenever the lawn in mowed in a bikini.

But really. As I was painting, BY MYSELF, I thought "this would be way more fun if I could do it in my underwear!" This was not brought on by alcohol or drugs. More likely, would be heatstroke, since it was RIDICULOUSLY HOT up there, with this weather and all. The paint was drying almost as fast as I was slapping it on the walls. Which didn't leave a whole lot of room for mistakes.

Since I had to paint with all my clothes on and progress was terribly slow, I was coveting a boyfriend. Not necessarily for the company or for the right to talk his ear off, but for the simple fact HE COULD HELP ME PAINT. Frankly, I hate painting. With. A. Passion. So whatever could be done to speed this process up would be greatly appreciated. Yes, I would EVEN GO ON A DATE WITH A GUY IF HE PROMISED TO HELP ME PAINT. Even at the price of keeping my clothes on and not talking.



That's a pretty good deal. But I still think I would be getting the better end of the bargain.

This morning, I took back every teeny-tiny mean thing I might had said about The Child Genius.

I had to drop my car off at the mechanics this morning and was supposed to drive whatever spare vehicle happened to be lurking about The Farm to work. Simple enough. Dropped the car off and drove to The Farm only to realize that the truck I was supposed to be driving was hooked to a very large trailer which was piled with mulch. Well, daunted slightly, but not much, I pondered my situation and thought "How hard can it be to unhook a trailer that weighs twenty times more than I do, from a truck that weighs even more than that, with my bare hands! Not TOO bad."

For the next half hour I proceeded to try and unhook this trailer. To TRY and unhook it, a little mechanism is involved where you get to crank and crankandcrankandcrank. Right. So I did that FOUR TIMES. Still couldn't get it unhooked.

So I called Barbie. She of all people should know. She knows everything! She IS WOMAN! She tried to help me over the phone. She did, sort of.

I cranked it up and down a few more times. And then. I did it.

I called my little brother out of school, stating it was a family emergency, so he could come unhook the damned trailer for me.

When he arrived home to see it was most certainly NOT a family emergency, unless we considered my startling lack of mechanic sense an emergency though obviously we did not since we had not done anything about it for the past eighty-three years, he was not upset. He did not kill me. He did not shout THANK-YOU-FOR-PULLING-ME-OUT-OF-SCHOOL-SO-I-CAN-POSSIBLY-FAIL-MY-CLASS-AND-NEVER-GO-TO-AN-IVY-LEAGUE-SCHOOL-AND-BE-STUCK-WORKING-AT-WAL-MART-IN-THE-ELECTRONICS-SECTION. No. He did not say this. The breakfast I had prepared for him, in the preperation he WOULD shout these things, was graciously accepted. He did not make me feel like an idiot. He did not throw hammers at me. Instead, he unhooked the trailer, which turned out to have a broken hitch (HAH! I am, at least slightly, redeemed!) and patted me and told me to be on my way.



And I was only an hour and ten minutes late for work.

I know that some people think I am irreplacable. I know that there is a school of thought that maintains the creedo There Is None Better Than Porkchop. But really people, we have crossed the line.

When I am in the bathroom, please do not yell messages to me. Am I supposed to process the information while on the toilet, so I can spring out for quick action and remedies? Or, do you wish for me to carefully transcribe the message onto papertowels, using Lysol spray for ink?



For the love of all that is holy, let me have a few moments of peace.

"I am ticked at men in general for being such spineless saps. Will any man with two balls PLEASE STAND UP? This world is full of ball-less wonders. And all the ballsy men are man whores. That doesn't leave a whole lot of options."

--A Female

So tonight, I went to The Chicken Farmer's Convention/Convention of Rednecks, truly an amusing, if not a tiny bit scary. I was able to see my life as it would be. My Life As It Would Be If I Were Still Going Out With Chicken Famer Boy. Yes, a sort of redneck celebrity of sorts, around here. Occasionally, I will run into people, or my family will run into people who are all "Oh! YES! I KNOW YOU! YOU DATED CFB!" I, briefly, considered dating people in the area just so I would have a fan base which would get me whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. Similarly to that of my oldest sister. But, I decided being the Redneck IT Girl, was not something I want to be known for. (I did not coin this phrase for myself, someone else thought of this clever little moniker.)

So. I tripped in to this event. Prissly dressed. But completely destroying the effect with my seven year old nephew in tow. Not that I really cared, since he managed to be far more amusing than most of the adults I sat with. As I was sitting, I saw all these women, cute little wives of prosperous rednecks (yes, there is such a thing) sitting at the elbows of their husband, with patently bored expressions on their faces. And it was ALL COMING BACK, COMING BACK TO ME NOW. CFB had planned on proposing, right about this time, THIS YEAR. So, I sat there for a few minutes and contemplated my good fortune of narrowly escaping such a fate. The fate of the short highlighted hair, frown lines, too much jewelry and bad clothing. While I might have frown lines down the road, and perhaps even the short highlighted hair, PLEASE spare me the excessive jewelry and bad outfits.

I was jerked out of this revere by my nephew stealing my cellphone and LOUDLY calling several people in my phonebook. He then proceeded to insult my phone, the speaker and the food. Really. There are times when little children are actually cute. For instance, when they say everything we are thinking, but too prudent to actually utter. Besides, I was able to use him as a excuse to escape early. YES! I AM READY TO HAVE A KID. Yeah, or not.




It was kind of like a trip back in time, yet into the future. And just about that weird and unnecessary.

So please do not stand in front of my desk, with your hairy belly exposed, scratching yourself. Also, when you turn around, I really did not want to see half of your similiarly hairy behind. I know bulemia is a tempting option, for me right now. But I really wanted to make MYSELF throw up.


I would prefer for it not to be induced by hairy, naked flesh sightings.

Watching a cat contemplate suicide.

Since I am (still) painting my room and the weather has been fabulous, I have my window open. Yes. My one window. As I was busily caulking, something, I watched the cat leap to the open window and gaze down to the ground, a mere two stories below.

I thought about rescuing him, it, her, whatever. Knowing that if I said I WATCHED the cat kill itself, I could potentially not bode quite so well for me. But, at the same time, to BE ABLE TO SAY I watched a cat commit purposeful murder of itself, would be SO WORTH IT.

After a quick moral debate, the bragging rights won out. And then, the furry bugger had to ruin my morning BY NOT JUMPING. Sitting. Looking. TAUNTING.

Yes. I am a disturbed person if I get such enjoyment out of watching animals kill themselves. Don't bother telling me, I already know.


On the bright side, this is a sign of normalcy!

If I did not know better, I would be intensely worried that we would be hearing the pitter-patter of little porkchop feet. Or would that be piglet feet? Or piglet hooves, for that matter?

My eating habits lately, have taken a turn for the worse. This weekend's menu was Cheeze-It's, chedder cheese and a entire jar of greek olives. And copious amounts of chocolate. As well as a assortment of other odd foods that I normally couldn't care less about. Today for instance, I was craving egg salad. EGG SALAD? I DON'T EVEN LIKE THE STUFF! Nevertheless, I ate some for lunch, and then came home to make myself a WHOLE FREAKING BATCH.

My behavior is rather strange as well. I find myself being QUIET. YES! ME! QUIET! I have been suffering horrible writer's block and instead of listening to my usual rousing music, I find myself soothing my ears with strains of classical.

While all these things are not foreign to me, they normally find themselves to be the exception to the rule, rather than the rule itself. This is quite strange indeed.

I really wish I would return to my normal self soon. I am tired of people constantly asking--Why are you so quiet? Have you suffered a stroke? WHYARE YOUSOQUIETDAMMIT? ARE YOU GOING TO BLOW US ALL UP? I am tired of eating foods I feel quite silly for liking. I am tired of not being able to enjoy my stereo system. Something about Chopin creeping out of my car just isn't right. For crying out loud, I cannot even write properly anymore. I misspell words, I am not funny, forget what I am writing about mid-sentance, and have NOTHING TO WRITE ABOUT.


The day when I would call ONE version of myself vaguely "normal" has finially arrived. And I want me back.

The fact our just-announced company dinner will be held at the very restaurant The Shotgun Date and I went to. I have been studiously avoiding this restaurant as a sort of personal boycott to avoid a similar experience, even if by the chance of association, ever since then.


This is not a good omen for traditionally ill-fated company dinners.

This afternoon, in the spirit of seeking excitement and getting work done, ALL AT ONCE, I drove to our local Home Depot to collect a few supplies in the continuation of painting my floor. Actually, the painting of my floor has grown into the painting of the walls, the rearranging of my closet and quite a few other things.

Right.

So. I am trundling through Home Depot looking quite awful. I have ripped, grubby jeans on, slept-in makeup and my USMC t-shirt on. You must understand, I wear this shirt in a spirit of rebellion and contempt. Thus, it is only allowed to be worn doing dirty work. The contempt and disdain is NOT for the Marines as a whole. Merely for a few certain members who have managed to be on the recieving end of my disgust and loathing.

Let me assure you, I do not look very Marine-esq. I do not chew tobbaco. I am not in shape. I do not wear dog-tags. I DO wear makeup. I do NOT walk like a guy. But this did not stop three different people from asking me if I was in the Marines and what it was like.



Well, I would know, but I hear it is pretty good.

When I congratulated Barbie on the purchase of yet another property, and expressed my jealousy for her success in real estate, she replied:

Well, I already want to cry, I think. Stupid lead based paint laws! If a brat is going to chew on a window sill, it deserves whatever the consequences...

Mainly because I am ALWAYS the first one pulled when our receptionist is out. Which means, I am subjected to a whole day of being hit on by creeps.

Wait a minute, that isn't terribly unusual, because that is ALL that hits on me. But, I occasionally like to forget that small detail and delude myself into thinking I can attract normal guys.

Since that seems to be impossible, I would like to issue a few notices.

To The Random Guy Who Was Hitting On Me Via The Internet: I do not care that the craziest thing you last did was make love with your ex on top of a sky scraper being built in Boston. Really. Trust me on this one. I didn't need to know your mating habits. But, since you are making them public, I will assure you, I am very much like a female praying mantis. Fear for your head.

To The Guy Who Just Came In: It is quite sweet of you to say I look like Cameron Diaz and that I sound like Cameron Diaz, so I logically must be the next best thing to Cameron Diaz. But, I have two pieces of information for you. One: Cameron Diaz is a crack whore. Second: If it looks like and dog and sounds like a dog, sometimes, it does not mean it IS a dog.

To The Guy Who Just Came Out Of His Interview: Looking at me and saying "daaaaaaaaaaamn" might be your idea of a compliment, but it is my idea of annoyance. So please go away.



Yes. I see myself. Ten years later. With a cat and a pint of ice cream. Watch out life, here I come.

I have evidenced my affections by staying up far to late for my own good to bake her a delectable birthday cake.

Someone save me. While I wait for my cake to cool, I am:

Surfing the internet--see recently posted gibberish.

Watching Dukes of Hazzard--an education in short-shorts in something I most definately need since my self-esteem was most recently boosted in someone, for the second time in my life, telling me I have nice legs.

Drinking earl grey tea--mock me, but rest assured I was thinking of completely this quaint picture by crocheting a cute lavender afghan to match.... my granny's hair! Nevermind the fact I cannot crochet, knit, cross-stich or even do cat's cradle! I AM SO DEPRIVED, WHO WILL EVER WANT TO MARRY A WOMAN WHO CANNOT MAKE A TOILET PAPER COVER WITH YARN AND A NEEDLE?

Eating cheese, crackers and hot olives--I am SO trying for that whole non-bathing 250 pound woman thing. It seems logical that it might save ME from anything horrific, like engagement or even the dreaded MARRIAGE.

So, yeah. It is now... late. AND HER BIRTHDAY!

Happy Birthday Princess! You better eat every last fattening crumb of this cake, EVEN IF IT KILLS YOU.



Just keep your shirt on. And make sure it is a long shirt.

Until about, five seconds ago, I prided myself in my ability to wear the highest heels I found, with grace and poise. Five seconds later, I have been reduced to a shambling amateur by this article.



That is a level of commitment that needs a ring, a church and a man in a frock talking about "wove and mawwage."

That two hundred and fifty pound women who do not bathe, should not wear belly shirts.

"Fredd, your like me, not brilliant, you just work really hard."

I almost barfed when I heard that statement which was uttered by my father.

The man who was offered a slot at the Naval Academy and a full scholarship to Duke, was telling this to my little brother who has been contacted by every major college, except for Harvard. That includes MIT, Princeton, Cal-Tech, Smith, Brown, Amhurst, Virginia Tech, all the military academies... You get the point.

My brother is the type of person who contemplates studying and gives the impression of studying, but really spends all of his waking hours at his X-box.



I hate people like that. Another reason I am convinced I am the milkman's kid.

*Porkchop typing furiously at her desk, looking terribly busy*

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: How are you?

Porkchop: Fine. You?
Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: Awful. Don't even ask.

Porkchop: *silence*

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: I'ma looking for a girlfriend.

Porkchop: *silence* *stares at her computer screen*

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: I'm awful tired of being lonely.

Porkchop: How interesting. *types faster*

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin:So. What are you doing tonight?

Porkchop: Painting.

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: Painting?

Porkchop: You know, painting. Work. Paintbrush. Spreading latex across a relatively flat surface?

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: *grunts disgustingly* What are you painting? I would love to help.

Porkchop: Something incredibly dull. With horrible fumes. That will kill you.

Interested Male Of Color: Oh. Well. Too bad you are busy, I was going to suggest we do something, you know, like, me take you out.

Porkchop: How interesting. I never would have guessed. Well, terribly sorry, but it will never work out.

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: Never?

Porkchop: Never. I am very busy. Lots of floors to paint.

Interested Male Of Interesting Orgin: Oh. Well. If you ever get bored, you know, like, call me. And we can do something.



Yeah. And if I ever, like, want to get date-raped, I will be sure to give you my number.

I will be the first to say that beauty is pain. Comfort is not an issue when I buy shoes. How do they make my legs look? I freely admit that I am terribly vain and superficial. Looking good at all times is a priority. I have even helped people move in heels.

But. The agony, I can endure no longer.

I have this really, really fabulous pair of shoes that I have been DYING to wear. I finially put together a professional enough outfit to wear them to work. They weren't terribly comfortable, but I wasn't terribly worried. It isn't as if I have a active job.

This morning, they really started to rub, but undaunted, I pressed on... until I looked down at my feet to see blood. Yes. Blood. As in, the red stuff that flows through your veins. As in, this stuff was oozing out over the edge of my shoes.

Apparently, my evil shoes were not content with the mere removal of skin from half my heel. They proceeded to dig their evil selves into the (now) unprotected skin and happily rupture whatever blood vessels and/or capillaries that take up residence in your heel.

I have since used up all the band-aids in the building in a feeble attempt to relieve the pain, but I am still walking gingerly like a little old lady.



Could I claim this as workman's comp?

Porkchop, minding her own business, sits in a chair waiting for her car salesperson to return with some figures. She smiles politely at all who make eye contact, resisting the urge to scrub her entire body with instant hand sanitizer after some of the looks she recieves.

Manager: Hi! My name is Mike!

Porkchop: Hello.

I briefly made eye contact and returned to staring at the walls.

10 minutes later.

Manager: Hi! My name is Mike!

He shook my hand and I gripped his hand unusually hard to indicate I would have no qualms in crushing his middle-aged enthusiasm for young girls. I politely introduced myself. He then made small talk, but finially blurted out "So, how old are you, I'm 33." When I told him my age, he looked crestfallen and replied "No, I couldn't do you, your to young."

Excuse me? Did I look like I was asking "to be done"? Do I have a invisible sign on my forehead that says Please Do Me, No One Else Will, Including Men My Own Age? I should have informed him I wouldn't do him either, since the topic had been brought up, he was too old.



And ugly

The having matching underwear and cute hair apparently isn't a good omen for me. It just means I will endure a horrible day with matching underwear and cute hair.

Though, the matching underwear could come in handy if I decided to, like, you know, jump out my office window.

I work on the first floor. Dammit.



I am not cut out for this whole Believing-In-Signs business.

When it comes to giving birthday presents. I suck. Majorly.

If I actually find something I KNOW the person will love, instead of waiting to give it to the person on the appointed day, like a mature adult, I get incredibly excited and want to give it to them RIGHT THEN. Or, at the very least, tell them, RIGHT AWAY. (I happen to blame this on my sisters, who, when I was young, would abuse/berate/guilt-trip me into telling them what I was giving them. Haven' t been able to get over it.)

VDOPrincess happens to be the Queen of Giving Perfect Gifts. Like. Everytime. She finds something that you wanted, but didn't even KNOW you wanted. Something that screams YOU, but is new and origonal. Something that LOOKS expensive, but not enough to make you feel bad for having that much money spent on you.

So. Her birthday is in three days. I actually found her the PERFECT gift awhile back, but forgot about her birthday. So, I had to re-find her the perfect gift. Now that I have re-found it and am excited ALL OVER AGAIN, she won't let me tell her what it is.



FUN KILLER.

May contain way too much personal, shallow and unnecessary information.

• I actually ate breakfast. Not just a handful of Cheez-It's. A bagel and tea. I feel so healthy. (Yes, that was a bagel WITH cream cheese and I still feel healthy.)
• I am having a good hair day. Wonder of wonders. For the first time in, well, MONTHS, I actually like my hair.
• I am having a good eyelash day. They are not clumpy, but beautiful and fringed. *blink, blink*
• My finger surgery was immensely sucessful.
• Small world-stopping miracle: In a very rare moment of coordination, my undergarments actually match each other.

Yes. It's going to be a very good and coordinated sort of day.

As much as I loathe you calling me Baby Doll, I will not tell you my name, no matter how earnestly you persist.

Yes. I will be known as the Nameless Mysterious One if that is what you insist on referring to me as, since you apparently cannot take a hint.



And I don't take kindly to men old enough to be my Dad.

I would like to blame this perverse obsession on my days of nursing classes, but it started long before then.

For as long as I can remember, I have been obsessed with exploring, lancing and draining infected wounds. I. Love. It.

At the first signs of a boil, impacted infection or festering injury, I will whip out my scalpel and starting draining, squeezing, disinfecting and bandaging. This is often occupanied with cries of pain and agony, but I manage to talk people through it. Explain exactly what I am doing and how it will help them, whether I am telling the truth or not, they usually believe me.

When they whine, I tell them to hush, or simply shove something in their mouth. There is not time for quibbling! This is for your own good! Besides, most of pain is mental.

Right.

Until Porkchop has her own infected finger. That she cannot bend. That is swollen and horrible. That is giving her great pain. Then, pain suddenly becomes excruciatingly important. Suddenly all my mental-pain-mantra's come flooding back to me and I want to cut the offending appendage OFF.


Percocet, anyone?

Yes. Your Mommy drives under the speed limit, with both hands and her eyes on the road at all times.

I am not your Mommy.

A friend from work had asked me to babysit her children last night. It was her anniversary, and since I am the ONLY SINGLE PERSON AT MY WORKPLACE, that means I have nothing to do on a Saturday night better than watching a five and six year old. Right? And I can truthfully (and sadly) say, Right!

It really wasn't bad. Really. But, as I spent the evening in suburbia, complete with driving them around in the minivan, listening to Hillary Duff, eating fast food, watching That's So Raven, driving slowly with (both!) hands on the wheel, I decided I am so not cut out for this whole motherhood thing yet.



Is anyone actually cut out for motherhood, or is it a process of surrender?

My sister is on a quest for a life of consequence. She is responsible, articulate and the very spirit of morality. My other sister is on a quest for a life of happiness in relationships, or lack thereof. She reads Elisabeth Elliot, Josh Harris and delights in whatever stage of relationship buildup or breakdown she is in. My brother is on a quest for a life of superior education. He has been invited to Yale, MIT and Princeton. He has enough college invitations to wall-paper his room. I, however, in the spirit of rebellion and impudence that I frequently demonstrate, am on the quest for the ultimate red lipstick.

Not just any red lipstick. Because, right now, I own about nine or ten Any Red Lipsticks. I am looking for THE Red Lipstick. The Red Lipstick that goes with everything. The Red Lipstick they used to wear in movies. Whether wearing high-waisted shorts or evening gowns, all the women of glamour would wear red lipstick. Red. Not mauve, not plum, not reddish-orange, not earth brown, not pink, not VIBRANT fuchsia, but RED.

This Christmas, I came very close to the end of my quest. I found a lipstick that I tried on in the store, which I loved. I puckered and pouted in the mirror. I smiled and scowled. I loved it. PERFECT. I paid an extraordinary sum for my little tube of happiness and scurried home. I carefully planned my outfit around the debut of my red lipstick. I. Was. Ecstatic.

I will spare you with the details of my hair, outfit and makeup,though I remember it QUITE clearly. But, what I will inform you of, is when I went to put on that lipstick, it was not red. It was not even mauve, plum, reddish-orange, earth brown, pink or VIBRANT fuchsia. It was Day-Glo Orange. Actually, the color day-glo orange is a little generous. It was more like day-glo orange with a little dirt brown mixed in and a bit of animal blood thrown in for good measure.

It was heinous. It made my skin look sallow, my hair look flat and my waist fatter. It disappointed me. Crushed me. IT MADE ME CRY. I had a few options at this point. I could:

a. give up on my quest entirely. And give this lipstick to a sworn enemy.
b. take the lipstick back to the department store and hope they had given me the wrong color.
c. keep the lipstick as a reminder that life will always disappoint you and you will never get what you want.
d. burn the department store down.
e. conclude that because I am fat, nothing looks good on me.

I did none of the above. I did take the lipstick back. And I listened toquite a few people lecture me on the consequences of relying on lipstick for happiness. And while I appreciated their well-meant words, I had already learned my lesson.



Never buy lipstick with tinted sunglasses on.

Can we just say it would NOT be a match made in heaven?

I didn't lick my plate, set his house afire or even short-sheet his bed. I failed to insult him. Him being Cupcake. My host in Conneticut. Apparently he was grossly offended that I did not, in my loving and charming way, wittily insult him on my blog. FINE. YOU ASKED FOR IT.

• He is the slowest driver. Ever. He would NOT take the shoulder in traffic jams and even admitted he is one of the drivers who pulls half-way onto the shoulder to block people wisely take that paticular shortcut. YOU ARE A VERY BAD PERSON. IT IS BECAUSE OF PEOPLE LIKE YOU THAT CHILDREN ARE STARVING IN AFRICA.
• He wore a striped shirt with a pair of patterned pants. I didn't say anything because he was sick. BUT, GOOD LORD. Do we need to put you into Gymboree clothes with the matching animals? Lions with lions, gators with gators and such. I think, they might even give you a handy little tutorial about MATCHING YOUR ANIMALS. But I don't know if the matching clothes are made in your size. You might want to check on that.
• Did I mention he was sick THE ENTIRE TIME? Which basically meant I felt guilty the entire time for being there. Even though I offered at least once a day to go home early. I guess I am just that likeable. Or, it could be I AM JUST THAT GORGEOUS.
• He needs to shoot his dog. I was walking his dog and he wrapped his leash around my knee and RAN. Let me rephrase. He wrapped his leash around my BUM knee and ran. Which meant I was a pathetic cripple for the rest of the visit. Completely and totally pathetic.
• His cat SLEPT IN MY FACE. As we all now know. I am allergic to cats. So. Let's just shoot all the animals and put everyone out of their misery.
• He PROMISED to give me a weapon and let me shoot at random objects. Upon seeing me and remember just how... special I am. He refused to give me a gun. Refused to give me a weapon of any sort. Clearing away sharp objects, heavy objects and ropes from my vicinity while speaking in soothing tones and not making sudden movements.
• He did not eat the required goldfish. That was the bargain. I was to come visit. He was to eat a goldfish. Just think. IF I EVER SEE HIM AGAIN, it will be interest. When you see the headlines: GIANT KILLER GOLFISH STOLEN FROM POND. You will know what happened.

I already metioned leaving-me-on-the-street-corner-to-get-raped episode. But other than that I am rather dissappointed in myself. My scathing comments are pathetic and weak. I am off my form. Maybe I am spending too much time around positive people. Maybe I actually had a good time and FOR ONCE was going to admit it. But. Since that is apparently unacceptable.

PLEASE REMEMBER I AM ONLY ONE PERSON. I can only cause so much trouble at once.

Right. So, they asked me to write a little blurb for the evening church bulletin. The evening church service is very low-key, mostly young people. When I pressed for specifics, this is what they said:

...I want you to write whatever you think people will want to read. I am telling you, do whatever you want. It can be spiritual or it doesn't have to be. It can be funny or sad. It can be a list of something that you think we should do on the weekend, or a cd review. All you have to do is get inspired.

In short, they are giving me CONTROL OVER THE MINDS OF ANYONE WHO WILL READ IT. Talk about the flower whoring possibilities... No! I will be responsible and cooperate. For once in my life.

I sent them this:


You have just witnessed the beginning of the end. The end of bulletins as you know them. No cute church sign sayings: "God Answers Knee Mail." No advertisements for parking bumpers—Free If You Pick Them Up. No "The Church Bazaar Has Been Moved To The Bottom Of The Sea, Never To Return Again" announcements. This is the new millennium of bulletins. The opportunity to lambaste, on paper, the lack of cookies, quality of coffee and people who DO NOT BRING VISITORS.

Consider yourselves warned. No sin, transgression or fashion faux-pas is to small to escape The Eyes Of The Bulletin. We believe that since God cares about everything, everything should be put in the bulletin. The only way for salvation in this particular situation is to submit any sort of suggestions, movie reviews, rants and raves or ideas that might temporarily distract The Eyes Of The Bulletin from their relentless quest for writing fodder.

Unless participation is rapidly forthcoming, you can look forward to The Quest for the Ultimate Red Lipstick, Life Lessons I Learned from a Amtrak Cop and I as bulletin subjects. The only criteria we enforce for story material is that it be slightly, vaguely and once-upon-a-time based on a true story.

Suggestions, fan mail and death threats can all be sent to babybarbie@gmail.com



I am very proud of my restraint.

While we are on the subject (sort of) I thought I would let it be known, if anyone has any knowledge or energy on refinishing hardwood floors, this is the point where you can volunteer yourself.

Of course, the reason you should do this, is not only the opportunity to see Porkchop sans makeup, cute hair and matching outfit, but the benefit of my extreme gratefulness. After ripping up half the carpet, pushing and shoving furniture around and beating everything with a hammer, my back feels as if I have been sleeping on bags of railroad spikes, FOR A WEEK.

In any event, it will be just me, going at it with a sanding belt and getting all excited with the varnish.



It should prove to be excruciatingly painful.

To insure I gain back all the weight I lost on vacation.

I succumed last night. Instead of ripping up the carpet in the bedroom like I was supposed to, I decided my back hurt too badly and collapsed on the couch. On The Couch With Ben & Jerry's. On The Couch With Ben & Jerry's And A Chick Flick. BY MYSELF. To complete this sad little picture, all I needed was a cat. OH WAIT! WE HAVE ONE NOW. SO I CAN BE THE NEXT BRIDGET JONES!

I am really not even that big of a fan of B&J. But the name of the ice cream was Magic Brownie. Who can resist such an alluring name? With the illusion of getting high on... chocolate and raspberries, I had to try it.



At least I didn't eat the whole thing.

That is what the bumper sticker read of a truck I passed who's driver was a rather, um, shall we say, curvy female. And perhaps, it explains the strange phenominon of the whistles, horns, catcalls and engine revving I get everytime I drive a truck.

I had to haul several large items to the Goodwill after cleaning out my room. So, I hopped into the truck, four-inch heels, pencil skirt and all. As if this were not interesting enough, apparently I missed a session in The Lessons Of Seduction 101. EVERY SINGLE TIME I apply lipstick in the car it garners some of the most lewd reactions. So, I was a truck-driving, lipstick wearing, real woman.



Can I get a degree in that?

Sometimes you want to rip your heart to feel the comfort of the beat.

IN YOUR FACE.

I am having a bad morning. I do not want to talk to people. I have a headache. THAT IS WHY THE DOOR IS SHUT.

So, when you waltz into my office and tartly ask "Is your door shut for a reason?" Do not be offended when I say YES.

And I wasn't implying that it was shut because of you.

Well, it sort of was shut because of you. Now that I think about it. So take it as you will, for what it's worth and at face value. BUTLEAVETHEDOORSHUT. There are enough windows in the other room to get your own ventelation going. Stop being a greedy bugger and stealing my breeze, my windows AND MY RIGHT TO SHUT THE DOOR.


Next time, I'll lock it.

Has officially been dismantled.

The Wall was, well, a wall in our room, where we would plaster just about anything memorable, embarassing or funny. Cards, pictures, movie stubs and those sort of things, frequently found themselves taped to our wall in the spirit of remembering good times.

Since The Sisters moved out, I took it upon myself to divide and conquer the wall. All my things were to go in this huge and very random scrapbook I have. All there things were to go in a box, which I would give them, but not before laughing hysterically at some of the memories I was to put in there.

Some of the things we saved were absolutely hysterical. Including:

My false eyelashes from my very first fashion show.

Pressed flowers from random boquets from random guys.

A picture of PageantBarbie in her underwear.

Tokens from our various fan club members.

My speeding tickets.



So, maybe my children shouldn't see this scrapbook. Or anyone for that matter.

At least Porkchop's waistline. Because Porkchop lost seven pounds.

Without being sick.

Without making herself throw up.

Without a diet of lemon juice and maple syrup.


I think this calls for a celebration involving lots of CHOCOLATE!

I have not changed my name, yet again. Nor would I give myself such a calorie-indulgent name. And NO, I am NOT obsessed with food. Though I know I would lead you to believe otherwise.

That charming monkier was given to me by a New York cop.

Yes, I have this lovely little knack with running into the law. But I meant to. Really. REALLYIDID!

Since my train happened to be a mere hour and a half late and the person who was supposed to be picking me up was lost in the Bronx, I thought it would be wise to get directions from a friendly person. Friendly Person In New York. Yes, I was born yesterday.

I found a rather gruff and harried policeman who was giving onehundredandseventythree tourist directions how to get to Madison Square. Not wanting to harass him, I meekly asked where to find parking. (Batting your eyelashes never hurts.) When it became abundantly apparent I had NO IDEA what I was talking about nor did I have any idea WHERE I wanted to go, he plucked the cell phone from my hands and proceeded to give the harried driver directions OUT of the slums and where to pick me up. He also announced that he was going to personally escort me out to the corner where I was to be picked up.

When he handed me my phone back, he asked me where the driver was from. Conneticut.

"He said Y'all. Anyone who says Y'all from Conneticut is a cupcake."

I smothered a laugh and informed him with the utmost seriousness I would pass the message along.

He then questioned me as to where I call home.

"Delaware? You are most definately a cream puff."

Light and fluffy? Bad for the waist line? DEVOID OF NUTRITIONAL VALUE?


I was not about to begrudge the nickname since he carried my HUGE suitcase up three flights of stairs for me and warded off drunks, bums and creeps for about twenty minutes. Until Cupcake arrived.



Protect and serve. The pastries are now safe.

To study, find a new job AND COMMIT SUICIDE.

I cannot, even for a morning manage to like my job or work calmly with my co-workers.



They are such an inspiration for a killing spree.

After a lovely vacation in the charming hills of Conneticut, Porkchop is back at work, back at home and back to being her normal charming self.

My deepest apoligies for falling off the face of the earth, but Blogger would NOTLETMEPOST before I left. And while I am very sorry for the rudeness of it all, it created a very lovely seven days without electronic interference.

But. I am now back at work. Facing quarterly reports and a list of mistakes that was found while I was gone. I go home and I face a room that desperately needs to be cleaned and a huge suitcase to be unpacked. And, a cat. THATLIKESTOSLEEPONMYFACE.


I cannot honestly say it's good to be back. But I will lie through my teeth. Because I am like that.

Porkchop: Last night, as I was sleeping, I became suddenly aware we have a cat. Or was I just dreaming.

GeekChild: Yes. That is correct.

Porkchop: Was anyone aware I am deathly allergic to cats and I COULD DIE?

*clutches at throat, gasping for air*

GeekChild: You know, it's not all about you.



It's not? You learn something new every day.