This evening, while chatting over my triple shot frappicino, my friend revealed to me that her boyfriend is scared of me. I almost snorted whipped cream out my nose.

Before she informed me of this, I was expressing my pure and unadulturated digust for this lad. While he isn't a bad fellow, I just don't like him. Plain and simple. I either love you or hate you. Origonally, he was in the former catigory, but after a two, no make that three, hour game of Cranium, he fell into the latter.

To be fair, that was not all that provoked it. I find him a bit arrogant, immature and he insulted my very own sisters. Yes! The sisters of Porkchop! ARE YOU EFFING STUPID?

First off, insult all you like. You can insult Porkchop all you please. But not my very dear sisters. For they are the kindest, dearest souls you ever could meet. They will bake you pancakes at one in the morning. Yes you, evil people. Even after you liberally insulted her apartment.

Yes. My dear boyfriend of my friend, this is war. Not only do I think you are not good enough for her, but you insulted my very own flesh and blood. *I have a rather long track record of running off those who insult those I love. **Did I ever tell you the story of the youth leader who lost his job after insulting my father? ***Did I mention the rather tall, strong lad I punched in the face after saying evil things about my brother? ****I suppose you must have heard the story of the certain leadership figure who was left with large red handprints on his back, in the guise of a hearty greeting, after I discovered that he publically humiliated my brother. You ask how I can get away with such violence, well, let it be known that I do not look capable of harming anyone. Imagine the novelty of it all. Innocent little (at the time) blonde Porkchop, harming people! What a lark!*****

So, perhaps when this announcement was made with such reverent hushed tones I should have owned up to the truth and said: Yes. I was expecting this. Actually, I am relishing this. I love this. Or something a bit more hopeful, like: Oh! Scared? Has be bought a gun yet?

Instead, I raised an eyebrow and choked out a disbelieving: Imagine that, someone afraid of Porkchop.






*My career started by beating up the little boys at birthday parties. No lie. (It was well deserved, I assure you, he was hitting little girls.)

**I only physically harmed people who were capable of harming me back. So I believe a bit of credit should be issued. Other than the fact I am defending my flesh and blood.

***All physical harm is quite temporary. No one has ever gone to the hospital, or for that matter needed to do anything more than flush bug spray out of their eyes, or apply ice to a few welts.

****His wife had to come to me and ask me to stop. His. Wife.

*****I have given up on actually physically harming people. And while I knew it was against the law all along, I would only use that on people who were in turn, breaking other laws. Now I try to lean a little heavier on the rapier wit and sharp toungue.

That there are some clients that only Porkchop is allowed to call regarding collections. Because I am the nice one. Because if anyone else calls them they might drop their account. Because I have the ability to soften my voice and make myself sound deceptively sweet.



Imagine that! Porkchop. Nice!

When, instead of screaming and running in the other direction, I consider for more than two seconds the offer of the old men who come in and say "If they ever make you mad here, call me, and I will give you a job."



Very, very vague on the details.

My weekend wasn't exactly boring. Just excitement challenged.

I took pictures of the Princess and newly named Church Maintinence Man canoodling in the downtown district. Unfortunately, the camera I was using ate the two best rolls of black and white. But, it was rather amusing to watch Barbie prance around them in her tall gold high heels, trying to make them laugh and trying to keep her skirt from flying up around her ears at the same time.

And while I have many cute funny stories to tell of the weekend, including getting lost with a certain Barbie on the way to a certain beach which we have been to SEVERAL times before, I can easily say the highlight of excitement this weekend was driving to work this morning, only to make the mental connection AFTER I got out of my car that leaving the sunroof open during a rainstorm will produce wet car seats. Which will, in turn, produce a translucent pastel skirt.



I can safely say my excitement can be summed up with soggy undies.

My younger brother. Yes, the freakishly smart one, actually complimented me. Not only complimented me, but called me hot. Not only complimented me and called me hot, but did so for the whole wide world to read. While some of you might find this a TAD scary that I am taking such articulate note of this, I can assure you, my brother is not one for superfluous or unnecessary comments.

I must now balance myself tediously on my current weight. If I get "heavier or skinnier" I will no longer be declared as "hot" by teenage brother.



You know. At this point. I take what I can get in the compliment department. So, thankyouverrymuchFredd.

I pride myself in the resemblance I bear, in words, actions and looks, to my father. Laura frequently comments that I should have been named the feminine form of my father's name. The things that my sister's rolled their eyes at, laughed at and were generally to wise to do, I have taken up in the spirit of his youth.

We do things like feed seagull's alkiseltzer (in the hopes they will explode), smoke cigars and yesterday I extracted a promise from him to take me bridge jumping. The one thing I will not do WITH him, since he is my father, but will, eventually, in the spirit of preserving his legacy. Skinny dipping. But that is another story for another day. He is, at times, slightly worried that I will do something a TINY bit dangerous and get arrested hurt myself.

So. When HE got his license suspension notification in the mail, I was more than pleased. After the glowers of disproval that came with MY license suspension, I was quite smug.




Until I saw my matching suspension next to his.

Getting my highly caffeinated has the same side effects as filling others with alcohol. I speak my mind, quite freely. I speak my mind, quite freely and loudly. I speak my mind quite freely and loudly to those I do not like.

Last night I had two shots of espresso and two cups of coffee. Laura's fiancee is in town.




And his family is coming this weekend.

Because our corporate office contains only women, every birth, every death, every new hiring and every firing must be accompanied with corporate luncheon. This paticular luncheon was in honor of someone I actually enjoy working with, but I, being twisted and completely evil, still managed to think evil thoughts about those who attend. The highlights of those who irritate and annoy me are:

Our Vice President, who my boss and I have agreed, is not quite all there. She is very innocent. To her, no problem is unsolvable. She demonstrates her firm belief in this theory by stating everything in a positive manner, even though you have just told her it is not possible.

Sample exchange:

Me: We will not be able to run payroll today because the system is down.

Her: So, you will be able to run payroll today, right?

Me: No. We will not be able to run payroll today, BECAUSE THE SYSTEM IS DOWN.

Her: Oh! I get it, you will fix the system and run payroll today!

This exchange continues until I glower at her and she shuffles out of my office, none the wiser to whatever I just tried to tell her. My boss surmises the only way she got to be the Vice President is by sleeping her way to the top.

Our Vice President adores food. She will come and eat your food without asking, as long as she can see it. When you catch her, she freezes, mouth slightly agape and then says "You don't mind sharing, right?" While she takes your food she narrirates. "I love chicken and rice. My mother used to make chicken and rice when I was about seven years old, and I just loved it. We would eat it and sit under the tree..." You get the point. And every three words she punctuates with "yes?" to make sure you are engaged in conversation. (I combat this annoyance with lots of nodding and avoidance of eye contact.) Even if you told her no, PLEASE STOP EATING MY LUNCH, she would keep eating, so in the futility of it all, you give her ALL the food, just to get her out of your office. She is also on Weight Watchers and is continually mystified as to why she isn't losing weight. "I have been so good, and only cheated a little!" She cries this every week.

Today she positioned herself by the chip bowl. Shoveling chip after chip slathered in dip towards her chattering pie hole. When suspicious, and almost worried, glances are cast her way, she perkily informs us that she "looooooves dip! But I never buy it at home. Only chips." I restrain myself from marching over there, wiping the white ring away from her mouth and prying the dip can out of her hand, just to watch her cry.

I have no pity.

Then, we have our resident busy body. Any small connection to fame or importance will quickly be made and she will tell you the story several times in minute detail. Every. Single. Story. She. Tells. Takes. Forever. No detail is too small to go unnoticed. And yes, she was the one who was unfortunate enough to have someone in the family murdered. Gave her drama material for months. She once told a story how Mitzi Purdue, the wife of late chicken empire owner Frank Purdue, talked to her at a Chamber of Commerce mixer. Mitzi was SO entranced in the conversation that she told Frank to wait so they could finish what they were talking about. Today's story of choice involved her stopping by the concert hall where we have a few temps working to set up for a show. The stage manager for Allison Krauss walked all the way across the stage and squatted down to tell her we have supplied him with one of the best working crews he has had in the last several shows. Just listening to her tell stories exhausts me.

I have this perverse delight in watching her do her makeup in such a fashion that it makes her wrinkles look deeper, eyes look smaller and her skin look more sallow. She thinks she knows something about everything. And while she might, I would prefer not to HEAR her something about everything.


We then have our collections "manager" who manages to do absolutely nothing, pass all her work off to me, and still get paid. Go figure. I hate this woman with a passion. She is one of those older women who tans like there is no tomorrow. If I am ever in need of a quality leather chair, I will hunt her down and skin her alive. Her hair is that funky highlighted blond that sort of matches her skin. She has lurid slashes of pink lipstick across her face and wears lots of frosted eyeshadow. She continually takes vacations, though I am not sure what she is vacationing from since she doesn't work. She manages to arrange her one working day a week on the day we have food. And she never contributes.

This woman calls me, predictably when I am in the middle of something important, to ask me to fax something to a company. When I suggest I could possibly be busy with something else, she sighs loudly, instructs me what to do anyway, and tells me to do it whenever I get a chance. OR YOU COULD JUST DO IT YOURSELF, YOU TANNED AND PICKLED TROPICAL BITCH.

We then have the woman who orchestrates these affairs. She should have retired, say, fifteen years ago. She has to have her fingers in everything. And it has to be done HER way. She calls people "hon" and "sweetie". She exercises every morning and comes into work in her spandex pants and then changes. This afternoon, in a moment of kindness I was helping her set up for this luncheon. She instructed me, one by one, where to place the chair. She instructed me how to arrange the rolls. And just how thinly the tomatoes should be sliced.

She also enjoys complaining when I don't do HER job. And then complaining when I DO her job, because I have done it wrong. She wears Provacative Woman by Elizabeth Arden. And three earrings in each ear. This woman has got to be seventy-five. When I first started working here, I couldn't help but stare, because her wrinkles were so deep I wasn't sure if she was deformed or not.


We have several more annoying characters. But I have exhausted myself and am starting to loose the vividedness it takes to depict the characters I work with. When I become properly enraged again, I will continue.

My darling friend, who as of late, has not been so darling. She has stood me up a couple of times over boys, but it wasn't anything important. A coffee date here, a dinner there and girls night. But, now, she has told me SHE CANNOT GO TO THE KILLERS CONCERT WITH ME.

The Killers.

I would like to say here that "I liked the Killers before they were mainstream" since that would make me sound all cool and hip. But sadly, I am not cool and hip, hence the fact I have NO ONE TO GO TO THE CONCERT WITH ME, and, I don't do the whole underground band thing. I am boring. Bland. But now that the Killers are actually well known AND Keane will be there, I have not a soul to go with me. Not a boyfriend. Not a girlfriend. Not a sister. Not a brother.



And I refuse to take my cat.

As it has been made abundantly apparent and proclaimed several times throughout the past month, the blame of the filthy—make that vile--office fridge lies with no one that works here. Apparently, a combination of gremlins, hoodlums and Great Ceasers Ghost seems to be cluttering the fridge with their respective messes. Whether it be leftovers, firstovers or exploding drink cans, they all in their own way, some more than others, contribute to the crawling bacteria pit we so lovingly refer to as the fridge.

It has been reiterated that it is “no one's fault” unfortunately, the lack of responsibility cannot extend to the cleaning of the fridge as well. Yes. Someone has to clean it. And that someone always ends up being Payroll. If you know otherwise, speak now or forever hold your peace.

Silence. That being said, or not said, rather. We shall proceed.

While Payroll appreciates the kindness of others for the responsibility, nay privilege, of keeping our illustrious fridge clean and has even tried to share the love, it has not worked. Payroll has decided, with much philosphising and pondering, to put into practice those famous words my father would often quote to me “With authority comes great responsibility”. After mulling over that for awhile, it dawned on Payroll that the great responsibility had come, but not the authority. And we are now claiming our authority.

New laws under the jurisdiction of squeaky clean Fridgedom enforcers:

Items in the fridge are to be clearly labeled as to their ownership. Labels and permanent markers can be used in the branding.

If an item is not labeled, it immediately forfeits all rights of citizenship and the Payroll gods can deport the aforementioned goods at their own convenience.

If the Payroll gods notice an item lingering longer than a week, even with correct identification and green card, the sponsor or owner of said item will be contacted as to the obstruction of the rotation of citizens in Fridgedom.

We welcome you and your food stuffs to Fridgedom, but please remember good citizens make a good country. We are looking out for the best interests of all citizens of Fridgedom and wish you a peaceful and pleasant stay.

We realize there will be complaints, and they may or may not be taken into consideration. In order to comply with the new regulations, you may need to petition the Supply Natzi for a magic marker. The only other accouterments needed are common sense.

Now since you all have read this and laughed at my horrifically hurried grammer you might be interested in knowing after I passed this out with the appropriate titles. Such as "Supply Natzi" and "Queen of All Things Bitchy" someone had the audacity to be upset, not because I called them lazy and irresponsible or gave them a mocking title. But because I had:

"Disrespected the deceased person who gave us the fridge. They did not even give the company the fridge, they gave ME the fridge and Bob had the audacity to put it up here with young punks like you who do not value it!"

Your right. I do not value your fridge, which is why I just cleaned it out, wiped it down, threw away moulding and rotting food and then wrote a memo to keep your DECEASED LOVED ONES FRIDGE CLEAN.

I find the story of my blond sister getting stopped WITH my radar detector rather amusing. She however, does not agree with my belief that number of times over the funny story equals even funnier fodder.

I pointed out that she had many and embarassing story on me. She did not agree. When asked WHAT exactly these embarassing stories were, I drew a sudden blank. So she the suggested she could tell the story of tattooing my butt.

I informed her if she could bring herself to tell it. Be my guest.

The story harkens back to the days of sister torture. They would make me drink glasses of lemon juice under the threat of beating me in the head if I did not. Maybe the threat was pulling my hair, I can't exactly remember. But I distinctly remember cowering in the corner behind the rocking chair, chugging bottled lemon juice, much to their delight and glee. (That was for the benefit of those who thinks my sisters are nice, kind people who would not hurt anyone.) They also told on me when I kissed boys in Sunday School. (TATTLE TAILS!)

The paticular story that Joy wanted to share, even though sharing the make-out stories of me as a three year old proves far more embarassing, was the time they concoted the bright idea to use the return address stamp to brand my tender pink buttocks. Kicking and screaming, arms and legs flailing, they pinned me down. With shrieks of glee my tender rosy little butt cheeks were unveiled for the world to see. The huge, big, ugly world of Laura and Joy. And then, my pure little Porkchop flanks branded with: For Deposit Only of Georgetown House


I sobbed pitifully. They laughed unmercifully. As you can tell, I was scarred for life.

The next time my mother scrubbed me in the tub, she was horrified. Pure little flanks! Now marred! And somehow, it was ALL MY FAULT. As if I would brand my own buttocks.




So there you have it. Joy and Laura's debut as my tormenters. And to think she was going to tell it to embarass me.

When your boss tells you that she would appreciate it if you would

"Calm down. Take a breath. Get drunk this weekend. And chill the hell out."



It is only Tuesday.

I have not done anything wrong. If I had, I would have said, Barbecued! The Porkchop Roasts. Or something like that.

I was going to sit here and mock my co-workers for setting up a portable television so they could see the season finale of The Young and the Restless. Yes. You read correctly. I didn't even KNOW soap operas had seasons. I thought they were a never ending stream of bad acting that just kept going and going...

But. I cannot in good concience mock them, since I stayed up last night and watched ALL TWO HOURS of the USO tour. Yes. Your read that correctly. And at the appropriate moments, I was leaking tears. I cannot believe I just confessed that for the entire world to read. I was going to save that as my deep dark secret that I would only confess as a offical sign of trust. And when I was telling Joy this, she cheerily suggested I simply blog it. Therapy and all. So now I have to think of a new deep dark secret. And I might want to reconsider my watching habits.

The Porkchop is ROTTING. I was supposed to sit and make ascerbic comments. I was NOT SUPPOSED TO BE WATCHING IT IN THE FIRST PLACE.



So there you have it. I have bared my soul to you. Mock mercilessly.

You know those verses in the Bible that refer to that Certain Woman whose Voice is akin to chinese water torture? That Voice upon hearing it makes you crawl to the corner of a rooftop and take up residence? The Voice which makes you bargain with God. Eat Weeds Forever=No More Hearing The Voice.

Well, The Voice works in my office building. Her voice is grating, irritating and nauseating. You feel like cutting off your ears and stuffing them into her mouth, or snipping out her toungue and plugging your ears. She gives you a headache, she gives you dementia and most of all, she gives you just cause to commit suicide. Or murder. Depending on the day.




If you ever need a Sunday School illustration, or simply want to make the Bible come alive personally, come visit.

The sudden quietness and lack of posting is largely due to the fact I have been swamped beyond belief at work. Namely because, as my boss likes to say "We are Dumb and Dumber. We do everyone else's job, and still let them give us more work. Yes, we are definately the idiots here." Her words, not mine.

But, distracting me from my self-slave driving is the fact I have this fat, no, make that HUGE, fly buzzing around my office. Flies don't just annoy be, I desest them. I hate them. They make me angry and frustrated. Paticularly fat ones. The ones that buzz and crawl lazily about while you are diligently working. But, they manage to move fast enough so you cannot kill them.

I have commenced to trying to kill them by trying to hit this silly fly, flicking this silly fly, throwing pens at this silly fly and I am on the verge of taking up knife throwing AT THIS SILLY FLY.



I think the clearly outlines my state of mind, or lack thereof.

On my way home from work (my stereo is FINIALLY working) I was blasting Les Miserables. The Dreamcast live recording. on the tenth anniversary. (Yes Laura, I know it is yours, just in case you are going to say something, but I am holding it for ransom. Perhaps, in your twitterpaited state I can simply continue making silly excuses for not giving it back--IT WILL NOT COME OUT OF MY CD PLAYER.)

And, I decided a similar Broadway production could be written about my life as I know it now.

Sexual Harrasment--Check! (Alibet not from my boss, but on the job from the creepy customers.)

Working with wenches--Check!

Howling out my miseries in song--Check!

I am an orphan--Check! (Or so my so-called siblings tell me.)

I am on the run from the law--Che... not yet. But who knows, if I get stopped one more time, I just might be.



Ok. So maybe not so much, but I would love to have Lea Solonga howling onstage in my honor.

Iva and Boyfriend came over, both of them being Beautiful People, they like to lavishly compliment. So, they were commenting on how lovely my hair looked and began plying me with questions as to how it got to this highly unusual state. Boyfriend, putting on his deeply perceptive face, says insightfully "I know, you got your hair cut."

To which I sweetly replied "No, no, I simply fixed my hair."





(I would like to comment that they have a knack of popping by whenever I look my worst. Normally in the throws of baking cookies, in my pajamas.)

1. It would make you one step closer to being an idiot/genius on par with Porkchop.

2. You will be up into the wee hours baking five hundred plus cookies.

3. You will be baking cookies, joyfully, because it gives you something to do, using up all this energy.

4. You will never be able to look at cookie dough the same.

5. Porkchop, will, however, have the headstart, since she has a destination for the cookies.


Nervous energy, even at one in the morning, can be rather addictive. I should probably find something more productive to do with it than bake cookies. For instance, I COULD EXERCISE. Or I could write deep thought-provoking posts. Only problem being, I do not write deep posts very well when my brain is caffeine addled. And, if I wrote anything deep and profoud my readers would flee in sheer boredom. Lastly, if I wrote anything deep and profound, everyone who I love and adore, would go into such shock, they would probably die.

Now that I have created a logical case against actual thought process for Porkchop, I can abide in a blissful state of stupendious ignorance. Or I could shut up and go to bed. Or I could try and make myself diabetic, by eating every single cookie in sight. Or I could go and FIND a box to ship these cookies overseas in. Or I could just shut up and go to bed. And stop adding ammunition for the arguement that I am pathetic, simply because I have nothing better to do than bake cookies and make senseless rambling posts at one am on a Saturday morning.



So this is me shutting up. (BUT NOT GOING TO SLEEP.)

I am not hugely into these Meme things. But. Rick informed me if I posted something so upbeat and happy on my blog, people would probably send me flowers and call me, thinking I had died, or at least had a severe blow to the head. So here is to the hopes of flowers! (Honestly, I am not obsessed with flowers, it just makes for good stories.)

01. Total volume of music files on my computer?

I don't store music on my computer. Lame. I know. But I don't. Anything I want can be stolen from my sisters disgustingly huge music collections and burnt to CD.

2. The last CD I bought was?

Last CD actually bought, was: Cold by Crossfade. (Very good depressing music. Great to listen to in my car, WHEN THE STEREO WORKS!)

Last CD burnt from my sisters who actually BOUGHT the CD was: Il Divo by Il Divo. (Very good depressing music when you would like to wallow in the sadness of your lack of relationship.)

03. Song playing right now:

"Cold, Cold Heart", Norah Jones, Come Away With Me (Her first CD was far, far better than her second. In my not so humble opinion)

04. Five songs I listen to a lot or that mean a lot to me(in no particular order):

"Iris", Goo Goo Dolls
"After The Last Tear Falls", Andrew Peterson
"Don't Stop Dancing", Creed
"Not Gonna Get Us", t.a.t.u.
"Bring On The Rain", JoDee Messina

05. Which 5 people are you passing this baton to, and why?

Joy- Because she has more music than anyone I know. And she manages to make these things funny.

Dave- Because I think it will be amusing to watch him reveal his operatic tastes.

Laura- Because her music tastes are just... strange.

Schimms- Because I think she listens to less country than she would like us to believe

Amber Lynn- Because I really have no idea what kind of music she listens to

There. That was my annual attempt at happiness.

I was relaying the story of Ghetto Grandma, rather loudly I must admit. I had described in much detail the horrible crassness of this shiny denim outfit and used the word "ghetto" several times as a all encompassing description of the fashion atrocity that was committed. I then realized, in the very next room, was one of our temps, who looked as if she lived in the ghetto.



Dressed in the same outfit described above.

Not a peeping tom, this time. (That is a whole other set of stories.) I noticed the lurker who has been returning to my blog, there are lots of those, but this one found my blog through googling:

beautiful girls white dark hair white -xxx -porn -nude


And, he is located in Akron, Ohio. A suspcious twenty minutes away from where Laura's fiancee lives.



Does this make me a beautiful dark haired white girl?

I shuffled into work this morning, slightly late. Mainly because I spent twenty minutes trying to adjust this silly leg brace that I am to wear for a week. A WEEK.

Normally, when I am injured, I get tired of it after about, oh, one day. So, if I DID go to the doctor, I promptly stop following his instructions. And if I didn't, than I return to being my normal klutzy idiotic self. Since my injuries were covered my workman's comp, I must follow all stupid doctor instructions.

Which means wearing this silly brace for a week.

Yesterday, I wore jeans and a blazer to work. My reasoning was that I, seriously, could not fit any other pants of the silly brace. Not wanting to DRAW ATTENTION to my injury, it worked out nicely. Everyone simply thought I was a half-drunken fool shuffling through our office. But, today, I was tired of jeans. So I wore a very classically me outfit. Knee length skirt, pearls, hair up, etc. And some stable high heels. Nothing that will send me sliding on my butt down the hallway.

The catch being, I had to wear this silly little leg brace over my hose and carefully manuver it around the ankle strap of my high heel. All very difficult and time consuming.

When I walked into work, they (being the gaggle of women commonly referred to as my co-workers) were gathered in a tight little bunch, drinking coffee and swapping gossip. Upon my arrival, a hush fell over the crowd and they burst into a sort of combustion of laughter. (Terrifying, I assure you. I was hoping flames might accompany the laughter combustion.)

They then made such remarks about how only I would do something like that, only I would make a leg brace look stylish and only I would STILL BE WEARING HEELS.



Is there something gravely wrong with me? I thought it was a normal human condition to try, or at least want, to look better than the limping dead.

Maybe. (I had my fingers crossed.)

We finally, sort of, solved the problem. But, we forgot to break for lunch. I forgot to bring lunch. And I am very hungry. So I am sitting here, stuffing down Cheese Nips and tap water.

For the past week, we have been so focused on fixing the software problems that virtually nothing else has gotten done. Problem somewhat aside, my eyes have affixed on the growing mound of child support papers, unemployment, filing and voided checks.

At this point, my eyes have glazed over and I am stuffing in crackers as fast as I can. I look like a cheeky chipmunk. With such full cheeks, I cannot answer the phone and my hands are far too busy to actually get anything done.

With all the exertion, I am growing a bit feverish (that, and the air isn't on) so I swig down some lukewarm tap water. My eyes are growing beadier by the minute. The life of a chipmunk isn't easier.


But the life of a chipmunk in a hell hole is much harder, I can assure you.

Today? Five.

In our immediate office, there is approximentally fourteen women. With our branch offices it gets up into the fourties. There are a grand total of three two men on our staff payroll. (Our IT guy just left, which has left behind quite a muckery.) The other two men are the owner, and this little old man who I have to fight down the urge to stuff socks in his mouth and hide him in a closet, he is just LIKE a woman.

They know nothing of computers. Our IT guy has had to drive to branch locations to plug computers in, turn them on, or simply reboot them. The Branch Manager continually has problems rebooting her computer on her own. Unsolicted advice runs rampant in our office. And if there is the slight possibility of drama, your office is flooded, computer drama or otherwise.

Drama abounds today. Let me give you a brief synopsis of events:

We bought very expensive new software.

The software came in January.

Our IT guy did not install in until three weeks before he left.

We did not run a REAL payroll before he left.

He left us in the hands of hapless independant IT guys.

We are on the verge of making our software work, save finding and deleting two files.

I looked for the files, my boss did and now there are five women in the adjoining office, hunting for those files. And sitting at the computer is, the one and only, Branch Manager. Miss Reboot Not Herself.



Oh. The irony. And the headache. AND THE TRAGEDY OF IT ALL.

Since I worked until 9:00pm last night (we are not paid overtime), my boss is allowing me to calmly sit at my desk, drink my coffee, eat my toast and write. Or whatever I feel like doing.

My boss is having the time of her life, dramatizing the problems we have encountered with our new software and stupid IT guys. So, she is spending the entire morning spreading the story of our pitiful fate.




Repeat after me: Porkchop is working hard. Working hard. Working hard.

A co-worker of mine happens to be neighbors with one of the doctors who examined my injury.

In typical suburbian friendliness, they were chatting about their day's work. My co-worker mentioned she had referred yet another patient to their private clinic. When she described me, at first, they were having trouble placing me.

Then, the light dawned:

"Does she have really dark hair? Is she the one who had on really high heels? Is she the one who asked us to put the splint on, WITH her high heels?"



"Yes. We remember her."

My ankle is not broken. Which I am quite glad about, because casts are just ugly and unfashionable. Besides, they make wearing fishnets quite difficult.

I have a sprained ankle, contusion to the knee and surface abrasions. Boring stuff. But I still have to wear this ugly little ankle brace for a WEEK. And he oh-so-kindly adjusted it so I can still wear heels. Thank you Mr. Doctor. He also informed me that he was sad it would take such circumstances for us to meet. Tragic.


I would appreciate the flowers in mourning for my beautiful, now ruined, shoes.

As I fell down our front steps here at work, skinned my knee, shredded my hose and bruised my ankle to the point that is looks kind of broken.

Oh yes. And I ruined my favorite pair of black heels.

My co-workers were quite shocked when I expressed more dismay over my ruined vintage silk heels, than over my rather hidious growth on my ankle. Vintage shoes are irreplacable! Bruises fade... sometimes. (I must say, I am being wounded in style. I have tied my ankle ice-pack on with a Hermes scarf.)

I will look on the bright side. It means I get to go buy new shoes. But the dark side must mention that these are some horribly ugly bruises. I look like I have an abusive boyfriend.



Oh wait! I don't HAVE a boyfriend. Abusive or otherwise.

Since Blogger is apparently riddled with worms, demons and mythical creatures that we do not speak of, my story regarding flowers and Brad was posted TWICE, yet the last, and funnier, half was eaten. EATEN BY A GREW.

Thanks to TSG, who needs to start posting again, damn him, I was able to re-post it in two parts, without having to re-write it a third time.


I hope it was worth all the effort.

On the drive over to the flowers shop, it was filled with casual idle chatter, but there were painfully pregnant pauses. I also sat there, wilting my linen outifit, because I hate adjusting other people's car enviroments. His car smelled of mildew and I was about to crawl out of my skin. I couldn't have felt more uncomfortable if I was on a date with a child molester.

We walk into the store and it is barren. Empty. A few bedraggled boquets droop pitifully in the fridge and there were your obligitory tight little boquets in vases that you might take to your adopted step-mother who beat and starved you.

As we walk into the flower shop, I begin to get more uncomfortable. A guy is supposed to get the flowers without you, just like he would go ring shopping or gift shopping. This is his opportunity to show how much he cares and how much he wants to spend.

So. He asks me what kind of flowers I want. I decided to be easy on him. I spot a a few tulips banded together in the guise of the word boquet. In inform him tulips would be fine. After figuring out what tulips are, he pulls them out of the cooler. They look worse up close. "Are you sure this is what you want?" Let's see, in the face of choosing between dying tulips and seeding dandilions from the side of the road, this once, I'll take the tulips.

He purchases the tulips. Twenty dollars. I waited five months for these flowers. He didn't even drive them down as the bet specified.

At this point, I start rapidly texting my sisters. CALL ME!

Sister #1 calls, of course, he can only hear my end.

S: Hey! That bad, eh?

Me: Hey...

Me: OMG! STITCHES? COMA? *crying pathetically*

S: So, are you coming home?

Me: Well... I wouldn't want to desert this poor guy...

Me: Is she going to be okay? Is the family there? Is she going to die?

I hang up.

I explain that my stepmother "fell while gardening", has a concussion, is getting twenty to thirty stitches and is not responding. I sob pitifully. Before he has a chance to comfort me

Sister # 2 calls:

S: Hey!

Me: OMG! Did you hear what happened to Teresa?

S: No...

I repeat the story.

S: So, are you coming home?

Me: I would hate to desert this guy after he has waited all this time to go out with me, but, *hiccup* I don't want to be gone if she dies...

She has no idea I just made this up, so I blubber something about "calling Joy for details".

I get off the phone.

I apologize for rudely answering both phone calls, but say that I knew it would be a family emergency if my sister were going to disturb me on a date.

He assures me that he understands and reaches out to pat my leg comfortingly. I carefully peel his fingers off my leg and drop them back in his lap. I spend the rest of the ride back to my car inserting morbid statements like "Right before Mother's Day!" inbetween sniffles and upon seeing something that reminded me of her I would start wimpering again and make the sentimental connection aloud for him.

I finally got back to my car where I made that two hour drive in much less time.

I got to the family dinner where they were eagerly awaiting my tale. Even though I disagreed when they all tried to convince me to pursue a career in drama, it was agreed that the flowers were very sad. Paticularly after waiting five months. I gave them to my granny.



For those of you who will crucify me, I simply want to say there is nothing worse than wasted potential.

I would like to fancy that with a childhood a bit more troubled, I would have been a con artist. I say I like to imagine this, simply because I know that I am not nearly slick enough to pull something of that magnitude off. Occasionally, even my sisters have such aspirations, but they normally discourage and even repromand for such activities. My latest job, however, even they admitted it was a thing of beauty and skill.

This starts about five months ago. A few of you longer readers might remember Brad. Yes. That Brad. Because of scheduling conflicts, he was not able to deliver my promised/earned flowers within a decent time frame. Well, he called me on Valentine's Day and assured me that I would eventually be getting my flowers. Right.

About once a month, he calls me and lets me know I will be getting my flowers. Soon. Right.

He starts IMing me more frequently and lets me know he WANTS TO GO ON THIS DATE so he can give me these flowers. Right. So. I was going to be in his area (two hours away) and I mentioned it, since, five months later and I was still flower barren, I thought I might as well GET THESE FLOWERS I EARNED, PLUS INTEREST. So. We set this date up. Two weeks in advance.

I clearly lay out the guidelines. I am to show up, look cute and provide conversation. He is to show up, know what we are doing, and bring me flowers. Easy. Simple.

A week before this date, he IM's me, letting me know that he is terrified of going out with a beautiful woman. He doesn't know if he can appear in public with me. I assure him all will be well and we can cut it short of necessary. A few days after that, we have this IM exchange:


Brad: i think i'll probably fall in love
Me: prepare to be gravely dissappointed
Brad: ok, wanna put some money on this?
Me: i am sure you will run screaming in
the opposite direction
Me: trust me
Me: it happens as soon as i open my mouth
Me: and i say something predictably
scathing and unkind
Me: as well as sarcastic
Brad: well thats your fault then
Me: maybe i do it on purpose
Brad: so if you plan on being rude, what is the point?
Me: brad
Me: why do you THINK
Me: to get my FLOWERS
Brad: well i dont give flowers to jerks
Brad: so you'll have to be nice to me to
get them
Me: you already PROMISED them to me
Me: and in case you cannot tell
Me: i am kidding

This conversation went on, me promising to be nice, and him completely missing my sense of humor. He also reiterated that he was sure he was going to fall in love with me. It was at this point, I realized I needed to be bracing myself for a looooong evening.

The appointed day arrived. I had a paticularly long day of at work. After I managed to get lost, I was late. I didn't have a problem with this, I arrived, covered in kiddie drool, in oversized sunglasses, but trying to be smiley, entertaining and in good company.

We met at a central point... the mall. If I was familiar with the area, I would have suggested something else. But this was, after all, his job to plan the date, so I was not about to complain. Getting him to take leadership was like pulling teeth from a crocidile. Possible, but painful. Since he owed me flowers, I was expecting him to already have them. I meet him and he is empty handed. I brushed this small detail aside, flashed my brightest smile and asked what we were to do.

He looks at me blankly and askes "sooo, what do you want to do?" I was slightly irritated because I had repeatedly emphasized to him that it was his job to figure this out, and this also happens to be a huge pet peeve of mind. Not trying to be a brat, I brightly spouted "whatever you have planned..." He then suggests we go Mother's Day Card shopping.

No comment.

I picked my card out in three seconds. He read it, and did not find it funny. Whatever. He then proceeded to take twenty minutes to select his corny card. Okaayy. (At this point I was totally kicking myself in the butt, because there are TONS of hot guys out shopping for gifts the day before mother's day. But I was not about to be one of those chicks on scams on other guys on a date. THOUGH I WAS SORELY TEMPTED.)

Once he FINIALLY finishes selecting his card AND purchasing it, he is all "Okay! What do you want to do??" I repeat the above mentioned phrase of Whatever You Have Planned.

He ponders for a moment. "Well, it seems a little early to eat, why don't go get flowers!" I informed him it was fine with me, I was game for whatever. His response being "Okay. Since I don't seem to be getting a negative reaction from you than that is what we will do."

Trying to deduct what a girl wants to do is quite stupid, I WOULD have eaten, since I hadn't eaten all day, but he didn't ASK if I was hungry. I wasn't about to announce it. HUNGRY! HUNGRY! HUNGRY! THE HUNGRY HIPPO IS RIGHT OVER HERE IN THE LINEN PANTS! And, at this point, I was seriously considering backing out of this date, and I didn't want to get started on dinner.

So. Flower shopping it is. We drive to a flower shop in the middle of godforsaken no where (we had been in the city.) As we walk up to the door, I notice that the hours of operation indicate they are closed. I casually ask "is this where you normally get flowers?" I am greeted with a blank expression and then him mumbling "when I googled for flower shops this is what came up." "Ooooh! So you have never gotten flowers, for anyone, ever, before?" He nods affirmatively.

Now I just look plain mean. So which is better, a fat chick with no sense of style and a vile mouth? Or a mean snake stare?



Or in my case, both?

As I mentioned earlier, I stayed up rather late last night writing a very funny post. As I also mentioned earlier, Blogger ate the funnier half of the post. And as earlier mentioned, I am having a terrifically bad day, to the point of rendering me humorless and crabby.

Hence, my lack of posting.

When it is irritating, but amusing, I normally have all sorts of things to say. But I am tired, my neck hurts and I am weighing the pros and cons of prison against my current job.

So. When I escape this funk I have crept into (which doesn't look like it will be anytime soon) I shall finish my very funny story and resume posting with alarming regularity.



Until then, I will be studying the effects of mixing morphine and alcohol.

I have been at work for an hour. One. Hour.

And I am on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I have had to sit on my hands to keep from hurling my teacup at our Vice President. I have had to bite my toungue to keep from telling off a woman who thinks she is my supervisor, that just because HER DOG GOT OUT THIS MORNING, does not mean her life is born of tragedy. I have had to physically restrain myself from ripping my computer off my desk and pitching out the window, along with our new software, WHICH IS CRAP. Because our IT guy left before it was fully installed. Thus, leaving me and my boss to fix everything. The desire to physically and verbally berate my fellow employees is like a itch, begging to be scratched.

And, to add insult to injury, Blogger screwed up a very long post that I stayed up writing last night. Chopped off the last half and PUBLISHED IT THAT WAY.



Since I am on such a short fuse, I believe banishment of existance by lightening would be preferable.

Besides the fabulous Razor camera phone... is to dangle it from between your teeth.

Yes! I am just as suprised as you all. But this charming fashion was modeled for me but a lovely young lady who came in, open cell phone dangling from between her lips. (Does insurance cover that as abuse or water damage?)

She then began talking to me, with the cell phone still between her lip gloss smeared lips. Needless to say, she needed to keep those pebbles in her mouth a little longer before attempting to communicate around such a large obsticle.

When she laughed, a very nauseating sound which came from the back of her throat in the same fashion she would have cleared flem from her passageways, I realized perhaps this was yet another fashion tip I should ignore from her.



The first being: Uggs paired with a skimpy tank top on a rather cold afternoon.

I think.

Scary stuff.

So. I am driving along to work, with no radio, cd player or clock. You ask why? Because my half-brother, who I have not seen in eight years came into town and after chatting merrily for three minutes, he needed something to keep him busy. So he offered to fix my stereo which has been having severe problems. In the fixing of the stereo he discovered it had been improperly installed and advised I get it professionally fixed. Since he kindly disconnected the fuse(? or was it something else electric that I do not understand?) I now have no radio, no clock and NO MUSIC to keep me from thinking.

So. That leads me to pondering what exactly we shall wear for family pictures. Since this brother has shown up, my father thought it prudent to get family pictures taken with all of us. All. Of. Us. That would be four whole children, two half children, two step children and a nephew. Plus the parentals. And yes, we plan our outfits before family pictures. Because we are just color coordinated like that. And normally, this task would not be such a challenge, except my hair is SO incredibly dark, that I have to think about these things. Not wanting to look goth in the family picture that will be preserved for decades to come.

And yes, these matters were weighing heavily on my mind. Leaving me quite thankful that I was not talking on two phones at the same time, as I was yesterday on my way home.

But, it allowed me to channel my wrath towards the lady who was trying to merge into my lane, but WOULDN'T merge. I hate that. I slowed down for her, and she WOULD NOT MERGE. No lady, I am not going to come to a complete stop just so you can inch your little Ford Focus hiney into traffic. And you had the NERVE to give me a dirty look when I drove past. I SLOWED DOWN FOR YOU! What ELSE to you expect me to do? GET IN YOUR CAR AND DRIVE IT FOR YOU? While I will freely admit I would do a vastly superior job, I AM BUSY DRIVING MINE. Thank you! While I can talk on two phones at the same time, I cannot, nor WILL I even ATTEMPT to drive two cars at once. I HOPE YOUR LITTLE, UGLY FORD HINEY GETS SMUSHED WHILE TRYING TO MERGE.



So, yeah. About that stereo. I really need to get it fixed.




Yes. I realize this is a written tribute to the accusations that our family (er, me) acts like we are on crack, without the slimming side effects.

I am remembering why I do not diet. It makes me super irritable, gives me headaches and it makes me crave food that I otherwise would not give a second thought to.

Lately, I have been very good. I have been keeping up a impressive skin regimin, super-conditioning my hair once a week and all those things that are supposed to make you beautiful.

But. As I contemplate dragging myself home, doing something of substance for the evening AND my evening regimin of beauty, ALL without any sort of sustinence other than my lovely bile cocktail, I simply quiver in exhaustion.

I hate this. I HATE that I cannot DO IT ALL.



(Prepare to see my writing go downhill for the next twenty days. As if it weren't bad enough.)

I am not ignoring you, I love you very much. I do not hate you, I adore everything you represent. I am not upset or angry at you, save the fat you add to my already ample thighs, but I believe it is time to call for a time-out in our relationship.

In fact, I have not been involved with you ALL DAY. I have looked at you, I have gazed adoringly at you, but I have also continually reminded myself that I am not allowed to even venture into that dangerous territory. For those reasons, I am avoiding taking your lid off and sniffing you.

Yes, sniffing.

You see, Dear Pringles, I am not allowed to eat anything, NOT JUST YOU. I am to drink saltwater and this concoction of cayenne pepper, maple syrup, lemon juice and water (that looks frighteningly like bile). This is healthy, this is good for me. It will give me radiant skin and the ability to actually appear at the beach this year.

Do not fret, Dear Pringles, I will be back before summer is over. In fact, I will be back in a mere twenty days.


But for now, it is farewell.

Apparently, it makes me look approachable, nice and friendly. In the past fourty-eight hours, I have been hit on more than the previous week. This morning, I was in the grocery store and a gorgeous speciman began chatting me up. Of course, true to my form the conversation was finished with him saying:



"Damn! You are MEAN!"

A sad day has arrived, Lancelot, as we know him, is leaving the blogging world.

Damn him.

For the most ridiculous reasons he is depriving me of my daily dose of well-written humor. He has decided, with his new job, he is going to be responsible and not blog on the job.

Damn him.

Besides the fact I am highly irritated that one of my favorite blogs is vanishing into thin air, I wish him well in his endeavors as a responsible adult.

If you didn't get a chance to read him while he was there, you missed a lot my friend. (I discovered him not long ago, but spent a good chunk of a evening reading all his archives--well invested time.)


You had better come back to haunt us when you get fired for drinking on the job.

My boss walks into my office, first words out of her mouth:

"I don't like your hair."

I respond with:

"Thanks, I do."


Now, I don't really like my hair, but I wasn't about to admit this to someone who so loudly and blatently announced this without me asking. (I just got it done and it is a LITTLE dark. As in, I am channeling my American Indian roots that are nonexistant.)

She finishes with:

"True friends never lie."

I respond:

"Who said you were my friend?"

Because it allows me to drive, put on mascara, adjust my mirrors, fix my stereo, eat my breakfast and speed. All the while knowing that I am protected from my little friends from the police department.

So. I am doing all of the above (as usual) while driving to work and since I was running late I sped things up a bit more than usual. I was navigating traffic rather quickly when I glanced to my right and spotted a friendly local police officer.

In one swift motion I ripped the eyelash curler from my eye, pulled my hand in the window, threw down my pringles, dropped my speed fifteen miles an hour and fastened my seatbelt.

When I guiltily glanced back over, I saw him laughing at me. It was a cop I knew, who has, on more than one occasion, let me off.

After I got over the inital irritation and trauma I decided it might be best for me to limit myself to only three activities a time (driving not included) so I can keep a more careful eye out.


Or I could just buy a better radar detector.

When you walk into the hallway and find a paring knife stuck in the wall where someone was having knife throwing practice.


Head level, I might add.

Saturday, on my way back from Kiddie Hell, I impressed myself, my father (the King of Speeding, Evasion and Reckless Driving) AND my sister (the Queen of Getting Stopped Even When She Has A Radar Detector) by making this trek in a hour and a half. That included a stop for gas and clogged traffic because of a local festival.


You may now kiss my... stick shift.

I listen to country music. But only when severely depressed.

Yes.

I know.

I think the exact same thing.

I publicly ridicule country music. My publicly viewed music collection is eclectic, but conspicuously devoid of country music. That is all quietly hidden away from the prying eyes of the public. With my vodka and cigarettes.

Now, even when I DO listen to it, it is NOT George Jones, The Charlie Daniels Band and Lynard Skinner. It leans more towards the sappy, pathetic genre of those who are overly indulgent in happiness. And it is only after I have exhausted all my Andrea Bocelli, Norah Jones, Michael Buble and Chris Botti.

It is with shame that I admit a low enough point can be reached and I will listen to it. There will be those of you who will think less of me for my listening habits, but if I were you, I would be a little more worried about the vodka. I don't know if I will be able to handle all this rejection, being depressed and all.


I will save the sharing of my cocaine habit for another day.

I try it, everytime. Everytime, I wind up wanting to break the little monsters in half. And yes, I am referring to children.

I was so not cut out to be a teacher, baby-sitter, child care worker, balloon artist, clown, McDonalds playpen supervisor or anything else that involves locking me in a room with twelve children for two hours and shouting: GO!

And yes, I did all of the above today, minus the whole McDonalds thing. Everytime I talk myself into doing something child related I am all "I totally love kids, right? Because I like HAVE to since I want to be a Mom... someday! In a country where you have nanny's, housekeepers and surrogate mothers!" And then, after three point seven seconds, reality sets in. I start snapping out orders like it is the military. Which, it is. Dammit! You are in the Army of Porkchop. You had better stand at goddamn attention, be pretty goddamn quiet and GODDAMIT stop running your hands down the full-length mirror creating that GODDAMN noise.

Four hours.

Four. Very. Long. Hours.

Who in their right mind gives their three year olds MODELING lessons? Do they not realize this is seriously overpriced baby-sitting? Which involves me playing Model Duck Duck Goose and Model Musical Chairs? Both games are as horrific and cheesy as they sound.

At more than one point today, I had a little girl in a full nelson. THE KID WAS TRYING TO SCRATCH MY EYES OUT. At more than one point today, I found myself trying to remove tennis rackets and baseball bats from the paws of these little angels to prevent permanent damage. At more than one point today, I found myself saying "What the hell! Beat each other with the things!" My assistant and I agreed the injuring, assessing of the injury and treatement of the injury should take up worthwhile and justifiable chunk of class time.



Right. And why do I try to convince myself I love children?

Telling a guy off or completely ceasing communication?

Someone recently asked me this and because I am just supposed to know these things, I thought I would ask the fount of all wisdom:

Obviously, everyone but me.

You know, a guy is interested, you don't like him and he isn't getting the hints. You try to be a little more obvious, but it has reached a breaking point, so, which is worse? The telling him off? The dropping off the face of the earth act?

Now, when I say Tell Him Off. I mean it. Like ripping into him and listing every single thing that irritates you. You call too much. You whine. You act as if I am your mother/girlfriend/therapist.You call him a chavanist/pig/ass. You basically break up with him without ever having gone out with him.

As for the ceasing communication, not just the purposefully missed calls and carefully timed voicemails in return, but a complete silence. No emails. No phone calls. No texts. No IM's. The denial that you ever existed. The proverbial Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind treatment.


So. Share. Please. I would like to be able to add this scrap of knowledge to my ever-expanding portfolio.

I would just like to say a quick thanks to the local thugs who were trying to be so helpful yesterday as I was jump-starting my car.

Thank you for your repeated offers to help me, even though I said I was fine. Thank you for informing me I was "fine", "pretty damn hot" and a "sexy mama". Thank you for sharing your love of "smart mouthed women" and your assurance that "you can handle me". Thank you for not grabbing my ass, even though you got pretty close. It would have been quite disastrous for both you and all of your friends. I can assure you, I would have faired pretty well.

Please understand that as all four of you thugs lined up on the sidewalk watching me, I was a bit irritated. After all, a girl can use jumper cables all by herself. Right? Last time I checked, it was quite legal. And, advice from strangers who look like they are about to make her their next rape victim, is really not very much appreciated. Also, please be sure to take my offer to fry you with the aforementioned jumper cables, quite personally. I realized I can be harsh and demanding, but I mean well. For yours and my best interest.

Thanks for everything--

Porkchop

There was this charming blue haired old lady at the bank this afternoon in a shiny denim suit. Not just ANY denim suit, like a granny-ish denim suit. But a denim suit I would expect to see on a fifteen year old male, skulking through a alley-way, mumbling about guns, girls and busting someone up.

Yes, she was wearing this shiny, stiff denim ensemble with non-matching denim retro sneakers. As I observed her outfit, I thoroughly searched for the hidden bling, but could not spot any, save her large earrings that could have channeled in HBO, from my vantage point. She was clutching a bright kelly-green crotched bag and speaking in shrill tones.

Of course, she managed to get the only ethnic teller in the entire bank.

Mind you, this teller was neatly dressed and very professional looking. But, she happened to look a touch TOO ethnic for this Ghetto Grandma. GG peered at her suspiciously through her thick--straining to be stylish--glasses. After she reluctantly passed her money over the counter to the teller, she shouted, slowly and clearly, her instructions:

"FOUR ROLLS OF PENNIES, TWO ROLLS OF QUARTERS AND TWENTY DOLLAR BILLS."

The teller responded very graciously and repeated her order to make sure it was correct.

"YESSSS... TWENTY DOLLAR BILLS."

Everytime she speaks, GG balances herself on her toes, thus rendering a bouncy sort of emphasis for every syllable. The drawn out "yesss" was sort of a quiver-y in-between bounce. Rather painful on the calves I would imagine.

As the teller finished her transaction, GG was mumbling about people not speaking English in America, stupid immigrants, etc. For the sake of the teller, I restrained myself from saying:


Yes. This is America, which is why you are allowed to wear such a fashion catastrophe without being lynched in broad daylight.

There is literally no one in the office this morning. And it turns out, working here can be hazardous to the health of you, your family members and your general well-being. Within the past two weeks:

A woman's mother has died

The VP's father-in-law died

Our collection agents' father died
The outplacement manager's husband is having emergency heart surgery, today.

The receptionist just had surgery, last week.

Bronchitis has been retained among various staff members.

Someone is in court this morning, being sued.

And, our last member of our staffing department was just called out. On this.

join the Army for chicks. Or the Marines, or, well, anything with a uniform for that matter. UPS, janitor and waiter, are all a little iffy for the chick factor. If you get to carry a gun, it definitely helps.

I have this friend, since I would hate to destroy anonymity, but for the sake of clarity, we need to give him a name, so, let let's call him "Dave".

He has tried stalking, stealing other guy's girlfriends (at the liquor store nonetheless), begging on his knees, the chivalrous act, soliciting cocktail waitresses, advertising his type, and even going on a date with the scathing Porkchop. All, apparently, to no avail.


So, he told me that he was thinking about joining the Green Berets or being a cop. Because, not only would it provide him the liberty of beating his girlfriend without repercussions, but, in lieu of the aforementioned desired girlfriend he could:

"Have wild anonymous sex with strange beautiful women."

I was just wondering if anyone had any suggestions for "Dave" on the capturing of strange, beautiful women for wild anonymous sex. It seems are only other option is to give him a firearm and badge.

Think. Quick. This is a matter of national security and my TAX DOLLARS.

Paticularly if you are a beauty queen who has a sister who keeps turning interesting, albiet creepy, annoying and boring, suitors upon you. I assure you, I have repented to the dating gods a thousand times over for giving him her email address.

She has been friendly, but firm. When that didn't work she moved on to polite, if not a little chilly. While she has not yet moved on to rude, I have been rooting for that paticular behavior pattern.

He asks her what she is doing the next couple of weeks. She replies that pageants have her busy for the next six weeks, but after that, she isn't so sure. (See? Polite, but giving him the chance to ask about the SEVENTH week.)

His email back, he asks "Want to go to Richard Branson's island in the Carribbean next week?"

While that is terribly kind to extend such an invitation to a disinterested stranger, who he has never met only seen stunning pictures of her, it is a touch forward. But, what he did NOT realize is that this email would be perfectly timed to reach her in the throws of a blood sugar meltdown.

What she wanted to send:

ARE YOU BLIND? DO YOU NOT KNOW HOW TO READ? I SAID I'M BUSY FOR THE NEXT SIX WEEKS! Please take the entire island and shove it up you pompous ass.

What she thought she was going to send:

Maybe you didn't catch it in the LAST TWO EMAILS, but I'm busy for the NEXT SIX WEEKS. So, while I appreciate the thought, I'm afraid I must decline.

What she will send:

Thank you for the kind invitation to the Carribbean, unfortunately, as previously mentioned, pageant preperation has me excruciatingly busy and I am afraid I will be unable to accompany you.


There is nothing scarier than a starved blonde looking for a little cold blood.

I will do incredibly foolish things. Just so I have amusing conversation fodder and things to write on my blog. That, ladies and gentlemen, is how pathetic I am.

But. Moving on. I get a call from my oldest sister this morning while I am drinking coffee from a teacup, eating raspberry jam cake and listening to soft jazz diligently working, she says:

"So, I have this guy I work with who wants to go out with you."

Instead of asking logical questions like: Why does he want to go out with me? Does he even know who I am? What lies did you tell about me? How the hell did he hear about me? I remain silent. She continues:

"Yes. I told him you were a major bitch. He says he likes a challenge."

At this point, it sounds moderately amusing, but not terribly interesting until she says:

"He drives an Escalade. And he is kind of young."

An ESCALADE? The ONLY reason this makes it sounds interesting is people who drive this paticular SUV seem to take great pride in this. They also like tinted windows, loud music and lots of bling. Something I would take great delight in mocking for a entire date. I mention this small detail to her.

"I know, I know. I TOLD him you were a major bitch and have no problem shredding people. But he is cool with that."

At this point, I am laughing hysterically. What am I thinking? I agree to meet this guy, with the potential of going out with him. My only stipulations are it needs to well-lit, drug-free and on gang-neutral turf.

For the sake of a story... my little sister was raped, chopped into a thousand little pieces and scattered around town.

If I die, you all can fight out the blogging rights.

That's the thing about boyfriends. They always manage to ruin everything. Perhaps it is the girls they are dating and they company I keep, but it seems that they always end up MODIFYING OUR PLANS.

Take into consideration, tonight. A friend of mine who lives down in the middle of godforsakennowhere Virginia with lots of rednecks, watermen and other assorted creatures was going to drag me to some seafood festival as entertainment. Yes. That is correct. She was bringing me along so she could watch me chew up and spit out the aforementioned creatures, just for the fun of it.

I don't know who is more twisted, me or her.

But. In any event. This whole fabulous evening of creature and crustacian chewing was RUINED when her boyfriend informed her he might want to do something with her tonight.

Granted, watching me carry out a shock and awe campaign on the idiots of the lower shore might not be exactly fascinating, but it has GOT to beat sitting at home, HOPING your boyfriend might stumble in for some drunken sex.


Or perhaps I just think to highly of myself.

With this fabulous spring weather that has been priviledging us, I have started driving with my windows slightly cracked and my sunroof open, paticularly on my dewy drive to the place I know as work. Apparently the charming fellows who inhabit the roadways in their fellow commuter vehicles on my commute to work find it terribly exciting to try and shout through the cracks in my windows and start up a chatty neighborly conversation while gridlocked in traffic.

There was one paticularly persistant lad this morning. At first, I could not hear him over my music. And then, I noticed him, straining out his window towards my barely cracked window. I peered over my sunglasses at him and rolled it down an inch further. When his intentions of STRIKING UP A CONVERSATION IN GRIDLOCKED TRAFFIC AND GETTING MY NUMBER became clear. I sealed all portals to the outside world and turned up my music just a touch louder.

Am I completely unaware of the new way of exchanging digits? HAS ANYONE ACTUALLY DONE THIS? (I would have said lowered themself that far but did not want to inhibit the SHARING SPIRIT!)



Could his tounge have been loosened slightly by the fact I was blasting Milkshake?

To the three hundred pound temp who walked in with a blank timecard from a month ago and then demanded a pen and demanded that I fax her timecard over to be signed for approval. The answer to your question if asking to see my March calendar was too much after treating me in such a belligerent fashion would be:


YES. Now please remove yourself from my presence.