The bathroom resides right across the hall from one of the nosier managers. (The one who can go drown in hot oil.)

I stepped in with my Starbucks cup, preparing to rinse it out and then throw it away in the appropriate place. This, of course, is entirely impossible. As I step into the bathroom, I am halted by a grating voice "What are you doing!?" I thought about saying:

a. preparing to blow up the building with coffee and lysol spray.

b. I am going to flush my coffee cup down the toilet and hopefully clog it.

c. I was thinking of hosing down the bathroom with cold coffee, in a attempt to freshen it up a bit.

However, seeing the client sitting at her desk, I realized none of these answers were appropriate. The only one that would properly do:


"Just getting ready to kick-start my morning with a little coffee enema!"

Same stairs. Same ankle. Same doctor.

Different outfit: white linen, no ruined shoes. Different consensus: must stay off ankle for three weeks. Different circumstances: the steps were super slippery because of all the rain.

Regardless. I am a idiot. With a bum ankle. And a weekend of foot-propping ahead.



I am so pathetic, I don't even deserve flowers.

And it obviously didn't work. Nor did our attempt to jump off a bridge.

You see. Our luck is non-existant. We drove ALL THE WAY to Suicide Bridge and prepared our mortal souls to jump, only to see that there was about three feet of water, and the bridge was under construction.

As in, there was no part of the bridge touching land. There was no ladder. There was NOTHING. I almost threw myself off the rocks, but my Barbie restrained me. (She will jump off a bridge with me, but not let me throw myself off the rocks.)



You realize your life has reached a new low point when even death is impossible.

To my boss,
in your ugly suits and perm
with your obsession to check behind me
but not behind yourself,
you annoy me.

To the office manager,
with your OCD and nosiness
and your insistence that you have your fingers in everything
but your own work,
I sometimes wish you would fall into a vat of hot oil.

To my fellow payroll employee,
who constantly berates our more lucrative payroll system
just because you are too stupid to understand it
I really wish
your children would trample you.

To my other fellow payroll employee,
who likes to stare over my shoulder,
maybe you are reading this
and will die of a combined heart attack and
perfume overdose.

To the receptionist,
who is never at her desk, cannot transfer calls properly
is always taking smoke breaks
and whines about work overload,
I really hope you get that other job.
(But I feel really sorry for them.)

To the owner,
who switches the lights off when he walks out of his office,
to help it stay cooler
I want you to know,
I left the air conditioning on last night.

To the staffer,
whose husband sends her roses every day,
and you complain about it in a silly attempt
to make someone half your age jealous.
I hope your next allergy strikes suddenly.

To the Vice President,
who agrees with everything said
I hope a gang of ninjas kidnaps you
and says:
DIE BITCH.

To the people,
who bring their pets into "work"
and take over the conference room,
have you any idea how disgusting that is?
I sincerly wish your dog gets rabies and bites you on your left butt cheek.

To the idiots,
who mock the way I talk,
just because I know how to pronounce the word
water
does not mean I am a snob.

To all the branch employees
who apparently have no idea
how to do their jobs,
here is a clue:
It involves removing the pine cones from your asses.

To whoever I work with,
who finds this
I dare you to refute what I have written
and please,
see if you can get me fired.

To everyone else,
who will point out that I am not a poet,
let me just say,
try working here for awhile
and see how well your shrunken brain functions.

My life calling is to become a really, really fat lady. A fat lady with cankles. A fat lady who sits in her house, speaks to no one and critisizes all. I will specialize in demeaning the way people dress, while wearing basketball shorts and oversized wife beaters. I will give you a concussion in the race for the last twinkie, but loudly whine about rude people. I will watch soaps and on a intelligent day read People magazine, aloud. All the while making snarky comments about stupid people and their lack of intelligence. I will refuse offers of a reality television show regarding my patheticness and will constantly threaten everyone who does not give me my way that I will commit suicide and blame them in my death note.

However, my redeeming feature which will make everyone love me, will be my lack of cats.



There you have it. My life, decided.



Halfway there.

I was lying on the beach letting my very cute nephew, who has a way with words, dump copious amounts of sand on me in the hopes of exfoliation, with the waves washing up over me, when I declared in the continuance of the pirate theme we had been playing "I am a mermaid! Washed up from sea on the sands of our fair beach!"

To which he raised an eyebrow, paused his sand shoveling, pondered for a moment and then announced: "Go back, ugly mermaid."



He is the only male I know who can call me a ugly mermaid and not only get away with it, but be cute in the process.

Green Mountain Coffee Company is giving away a single cup coffee pot every day to a reader who can tell them the best, in two hundred words or less why they need it. And this is what I wrote:

Working in an office of women twice my age has its perks. They proffer handsome grandsons, ply you with food, and think you are young and beautiful. However, one of the downsides (other than ugly grandsons and jello salads) is the lack of desire for a quality cup of coffee. I am not only mocked for my use of a teacup instead of a mug, but my taste for brews other than Folgers is bewildering.There is nothing more disheartening than carefully scrubbing out the stained coffee pot, measuring out freshly ground coffee from my desk stash, and waiting for it to finish brewing to perfection (or as close as perfection can get in a office coffee pot), only to find them flocking toward my pot declaring that "the decaf tastes odd today".

If coffee enlightenment were possible for them, I would pursue it. But since they have made it abundantly evident that it is not, I beseech you Green Mountain Brewing Company, to recognize my tragic plight as an under-appreciated, overly-brewed, old coffee pot user, and bequeath me with a new pot to delight my senses and tuck under my desk.

Truly, this would be happiness.

My hair has been properly fixed. Flame Warrior Princess Hair is but a distant memory (since I have actually found a hairdresser that does what I want, not a interpretation of what she THINKS I want.) But, since I sat out in the sun all day Saturday, my once carmely highlights are now, well, a wee tad lighter. And my boobs, are a wee tad brighter. They sort of glow in the dark, for all their redness. Rather painful. But, all for the price of beauty, looking good and being tan.



If nothing else, I will take up being a night-time light reflector.

Forget my whinings of no men. Forget my lament of badly colored hair. Forget the fact I think my eyelashes are shorter than they ever have been. Forget the fact I had to sit in a traffic jam for twenty minutes this morning with no music. Forget the fact I do not have a swimsuit body for this weekend. Forget my hate for mankind in general.

For a moment, anyway.

Starbucks is offically open. Wait, did you hear that, STARBUCKS IS OPEN. Not only is Starbucks open, but they are directly on my way to work. And, because I was one of their first 100 customers, I GOT FREE COFFEE COFFEE. (Since it is pre-ground, I will be feeding it to all the mere mortals at work who do not appreciate Starbucks, or any good coffee for that matter.*)Before all of you "too cool for Starbucks" people start berating Starbucks as a poser coffee shop, or my need for overpriced coffee, let me point out that in case you have noticed, there are few things give me joy. So let me have my little jollies.

And, just for the record, if we did have a decent independant coffee shop, I would most definately support it. But we don't, so I can't. Moving on.

And I know, because this was there first morning open, they were unusually nice and cheerful. Almost annoying so, actually. I only had fifteen people chirp a freakishly bright "Good Morning, Welcome to Starbucks!" once I walked in. But you know what, in paying for my cup of overpriced coffee, I am also paying for the illusion of cheerfulness. So, I can deal with that. In fact, I would be dissappointed if they DIDN'T get on my nerves.

I assured them, they would be seeing quite allot of me. Probably more than they actually wanted to see. (In fact, I am so hardcore, I have been known to give Starbucks paraphneilia for birthday presents.)

Don't think this is easy for me! I have been labeled a "prep", "snob" and "snotty" for my unabashed love of quality caffeine. But then again, considering the source, I think I will take it as a compliment.


Now, all they need to make my life complete, are some cute baristas.



*It is all part of my plan to start using a very strong blend in our office coffee pots, get them hooked, and then switch it to decaf. The oldest trick in the book, I know, but come on, we are talking about seventeen women who need all the help we they can get.

It seems, whenever I go to touch up my color with a certain sister of mine, we end up with disastrous results. I don't know if her hands are cursed, but in attempt to go one shade lighter than the raven brown I was sporting, it created a very female super-hero effect.

As in, I now have half an inch of red and the rest of my hair black. Yeah. Just super great. Super, super great.

I am tempted to call into work late and dash into my salon to get this fixed. Or can I survive a WHOLE DAY with Flame, Warrior Princess hair?

This isn't good. Half my wardrobe will clash with my hair.

Yes, yes. I think I will get lots of multi-tonal highlights to hide this catastrophe.



On the bright side, Laura's hair looks quite lovely.

6:01 p.m. please put a gun to my head and end this misery

6:04 p.m. this is ridiculous. and people wonder why I hate my job!

6:07 p.m. i would give allot. like, my life savings allot, to not be here.

6:09 p.m. not only am i eating dinner with eight loud drinking women, but there is a pervert staring at us.


Last night, I was literally forced to go to this vile company get-together. Now, company get-togethers might be slightly more bearable if there were a cute guy from staffing to flirt with, or even a UGLY guy from staffing for that matter. But it is all women. Post menopausal women. Who drink like fishes. And don't even drink classily. We are talking beer straight from the bottle at the dinner table, draining glasses of wine before your dinner even gets there and drinking oddly colored hard drinks with... your bread.

Their copious drinking and smoking is quite evidenced in their looks. Weathered skin, frizzy hair, stained teeth and a general tinge of "life bit me in the ass" look about them. I have nothing against people who have had hard lives, what I do hold against people is a lack of dignity, manners and class.

A certain low point of dinner was when one co-worker, who used to be a alcoholic and heavy smoker, half way through her second bottle of beer, plucked the cigarette out of someone elses hand and took a heavy drag on it. And then, handed it back to her. Without batting an eyelash. Like nothing had happened.

The other low point to rival that was the Pickle Spear Deep Throating Contest. While it is rather self explanitory, I simply want to say seeing women over fourty participate is rather nauseating. The winner slyly commenting "You can now see why I have been married three times."

Good times were NOT had by all. I was the first to leave. I was, in fact, so miserable and afraid I would see someone I knew, that I did not wait to pay for my check at the table. I sought out my waitress and hid behind a potted plant while I waited for my receipt.



I went home, took a very, very hot shower and prayed to God I did not catch a STD sitting at the same table with them.

I really do not understand how you thought we were going to give you your SON'S paycheck, without some sort of release waiver. When you belligerently began waving your arms and yelling at me, I thought about being annoyed. But, that is not what supremely irritated me.

What irritated me, was when the kind gentleman next to you was getting HIS check you stared at it and then began verbally berating me for not enclosing the checks in envelopes. Because, Godforbid, "just aboot annyun cin c how moch miney ur makin". Yes. True. But since you DO NOT HAVE A JOB, I do not think it is your perogative to worry about it. Get a job, so you can have a paycheck, so people can see how much you are making, and I will consider your complaint.

Until then. Keep your grubby mitts away from my desk. And stop stirring up complaints which are completely unnecessary. Because, frankly, when you DO get a job, I will probably be cutting your paycheck. And it could get ugly.

Have a nice life--

Moneybags Porkchop (aka The Person Who Pays You)

Apparently, I am to damn picky. (And I am simply a pathetic loser.)

Let me explain:

Charming old lady I work with has been talking up her grandson for months. I was a tiny bit skeptical since this very grandson showed his grandma the refridgerator he turned into a keg cooler which was dubbed the "Keginator". (I mean, really, what decent grandson shows his grandmother these things?) But, since I am clearly beyond the point of pickiness, she brought in pictures of her handsome grandson.

*silence*

Handsome is a very subjective term.

Very.

As I rifled through the pictures, I was politely making comments, but inwardly screaming GET THESE THINGS AWAY FROM ME. HIS UGLYNESS MIGHT RUB OFF ON ME. After I politely finished and made appropriate comments, she was showing them to all the horny old ladies in my office who cooed what a hot little stud he was. It was only then, as I was sitting at my desk, that she pulled out the picture of him, with his girlfriend. His girlfriend who, I gleaned from the rather loud comments, is quite cute and adorable.

Excuse me, do I have a sign stapled on my forehead that reads: In Danger Of Becoming The Spinster Nanny Sister, Please Try And Hook Me Up With All Things Male. Single AND Attached, Welcome.

Thank you for your kindness at the blood bank. More importantly, thank you for stuffing me full of chocolate chip cookies (even if they were from the store) and milk after they shoved a frickin' huge needle into a very sensitive place in my arm.

Apparently, most of the people at the Blood Bank do not care that I bruise easily, and refused to take blood from my left arm, even though I made it quite clear if the blood was taken from my right arm, I would have a permanent bruise and probably burst into tears.

Upon disappointing them in the tears department, they shoved the frickin' huge needle even deeper into my arm, which left me twitching in the chair for a solid ten minutes.

It was because of your love and cookies (would that be Cookie Love?) that I managed to escape without threatening to burn the building down.

Thanks ever so much little old man,

Porkchop


P.S. Little old men often like to hit on me, thanks for bypassing that option and just giving me another cookie.

P.S.S. I like cookies.

P.S.S.S. Allot.

In the abscense of our scathingly hilarious brother, we sisters, have hijacked his blog (with his permission) and have taken to putting down on virtual paper everything we hate.

It is really quite effective, paticularly because we often utter the phrase "that is one of my pet peeves". It is also quite amusing to watch my two sisters, who constantly worry of my withered hateful soul, get a little of that long pent up vengence out.

We are taking over the world. One hater at a time.

In a attempt to help pass the time of your drive to work, do not read. It may cause you to drift off the road and come perilously close to clipping the old lady checking her mail at 8:00 in the morning.

I will not bore you with venting about my perfectly wretched day. How I would like to kill everyone I work with, join a convent and possibly kill myself. Somewhat in that order.

In any event, the one incident which has left a scarringly indelible impression upon me, is my lunch. I adore my steak and potatoes, and today I happened to cart in my leftovers which were just that. Perfectly roasted steak, a baked potato and other lovely things. It wasn't bad enough that I had to watch the front desk, again, while the receptionist took a HOUR LONG LUNCH. No, I could not eat my rare steak in peace, I had to hurriedly chew it inbetween phone calls. And choke it down everytime someone walked in. That is, once I cut myself a bite.

As a rule, I keep a complete set of silverware in my desk drawer. Namely because I loathe eating with plastic untensils. I find them vile, disgraceful and generally ungainly. I prefer my three tonged fork, sharp knife, soup spoon and teaspoon. Yes. I am obsessive, but at least I do not have fork tines flaking off in my mouth.

Some demon soul that I work with, apparently, thought borrowing my silverware set, WITHOUT ASKING ME, would be fine. Where they got this idea, I know not, paticularly since I am not a nice person, a sharing person or a person who would GIVE A DAMN if they had to eat with plasticware.

Here. I sit at the front desk. Sawing off bites of steak with a plastic knife and fork. The pathetic excuse for tableware bending and buckling under my angry stabbings and sawings. I am cursing humanity and the creatures I work with. This is the last straw. I am over the edge. There will be no tomorrow. I have had it.



This is only an hour of my day. ONE hour. I am so going to jump of a bridge.

My darling little brother, the one who routinely says he does not understand me and I am completely irrational, left today for the wild jungles of Belize.

He left, terribly excited at the thought of catching someone and bringing them home to do his laundry. He left, a tiny bit scared that his plane would be the first for the airline to crash. He left, grinning at his copious amounts of duct-tape, relishing the thought of taping the mouths of fellow rescue workers/annoying highschoolers mouths shut. Also, when he left, he said he would miss me. MISS ME!

As if that weren't earth shattering enough, he also made me a contributor to his blog, appropriately titled "A Hateful Subconscious". His blog is hilarious and scathing enough to make me look downright nice. (A newer reader to my blog, with whom I spoke to in person, informed me that my blog is very angry. Enough to maybe scare him, just a little bit, of me, as a person, in general.) While I was not given the priviledge of actually writing for it, I was instructed to post his pre-written missives every week. Be assured, if you don't carefully check it out, you will be missing gems such as the discussion of the overuse of the phrase "OMFG" and tiger skinning.

And while you will be missed greatly, we can rest assured you will come back the better for doing your laundry with rocks, chasing down natives and whatever other inappropriate behavior you can conjure.

The promised people showed up at the Par-Tay, there was the promised food and DJ. Good times were had by most.

But, a slight damper was put on our evening when early on we found a dead and bloodied pigeon at the very top of our steps. After debating whether it was a gift from our respective stalkers, or simply an act of drunk pigeon flying, we reminded ourselves we needed to dispose of the mangled fowl before our guests started arriving. I, being the brave albiet tortured soul that I am, threw the bird into the hedge and left the pools of blood for the guests to speculate. We could not shake the suspicion that it was an omen of parties past. Dead. No fun. Bored guests.

And while it turned out our worries were in vain, since everyone at least pretended they had fun, save Barbie, who had to dance every single dance known to mankind including the Hoedown and the Chicken dance, to amuse our guests.



So, I suppose you could say good times were had by all but Barbie's tired feet.

Of why Casual Friday's should be outlawed.

We have women over the age of forty, trying to be young and hip. Short-shorts, low tops and tight pants. I am seeing way too much wrinkled cleveage, cellulite and varicose veins.

At this point, I would cheerily gouge my eyes out with a spoon.



But then I would lose the priviledge of seeing the tightly rolled short-shorts and vomiting up my lunch.

Exhibit A: I rolled something that looked very much like a joint of marijuana (which was actually simply rolled copier paper) and lit it, in my office.

Exhibit B: Once I was caught for "smoking" in the building I sprayed enough Coconut Lime Verbena air freshener to have the people at the opposite end of the building come down here and ask me if I was preparing for the beach.

Exhibit C: I took my very convincing looking joint outside to smoke with my boss and stood at the back of the building where cops frequently patrol.

Exhibit D: When a fellow employee asked me what I was doing, I told them my job had given me, get this: a stress related disease and I had, a few weeks ago, been prescribed marijuana.

Exhibit E: The owner asked me what exactly I was doing, I informed him I was studying our latest report and absorbing it via smoke osmosis.

Exhibit F: After reluctnantly stubbing my joint out, I crammed a entire milky way in my mouth. When asked what exactly I was doing, I said (through a entire milky way bar) "I have the munchies!"

Exhibit G: When told I would not be fired because it was obvious I was mentally unstable and they felt sorry for me, I threw myself across my desk and begged them to reconsider.

I have a taste for food other than that which comes out of a chinese chop shop. Weird, I know.

Today's menu was:

Baked salmon encrusted with coconut and infused with lime. Served over rice, with buttered peas. And a side of spinach salad with blueberries, red peppers, shredded cheese and hardboiled eggs. With ginger honey pepper dressing.



The vice president has not ventured near my desk.

Blonde or Brunette?

There are two fiercely divided factions. There is no leaning towards one side or the other. Perhaps I should compromise with a very boring sort of brown? Should I simply chunk highlight my hair screaming blonde against my almost-black brunette?

In this decision, there are so many things to consider, maintinence, skin tone, fading, explotation of the hair shaft. (For those of you who say grow my natural color out, I scorn you. You have no idea what you are talking about.)

Being blonde gets me more attention, negative or otherwise, but people also drop my IQ thirty points. I can where decidedly more colors, and my clothing staple of black tends to look a little classier. People say it makes me look happier and generally more likeable.

Being (dark, dark) brunette makes people think I am smarter, whether that is founded or not, is highly debateable. I am more likely to wear bright colors, but instead of being mistaken for Cameron Diaz or Reese Witherspoon, I am told I look like Kelly Osbourne. And, I get lots of questions about being goth, a witch or generally demonic.

I am frought with worry. I know not what to do.



And I haven't even begun deliberating about the haircut.

Rumor got out that I am a pyromaniac. I am now not allowed to burn candles in my office under the guise of something silly called the "fire code".

The insert in my mail opener reads: Porkchop's preferred instrument of death and destruction.

I once informed our Vice President that I could kill someone with my bare hands. (Which, in theroy, I can, but have yet to actually prove it.)

Yesterday, I copied the back of a deposit slip and threw it in the trash. The back of the deposit slip only contains amounts of checks and abbreviated names of our companies. No bank account numbers or sensitive information. The owner walked back here and informed it it was unacceptable to throw away such sensitive information and in the future I should shred it.

Hmm. Where is my shredder?

However, my job involves working with allot of people's personal financial information. Social security numbers, bank accounts, and that sort of thing. I go through about a ream of paper a day in reports and data containing this information. I have never been instructed to destroy it. I simply throw it away, and our trash sits out back, where anyone can go through it at their own disposal.

I just recieved a memo instructing me to shred all sensitive company information, nothing about employee information. But either way, there is no way on earth I am spending half my day ripping papers up. I replied to the memo with another memo saying:

Maybe we could get a shredder? So we wouldn't have to rip up reams of paper with our bare hands?

I am fully expecting a memo in reply:

Use your safety scissors.

For the first time since I was seven years old, and understood what cellulite was, I drank a regular Coke.


Pull out the pitchforks, machine guns and slingshots. It will all be over soon.

Apparently, I have this nasty little habit of letting people think that I view my brother's, half, step or whole, as romantic material. Last year, my step-brother's girlfriend was quite worried and jealous that I might STEAL HIM AWAY.

Bring on the mutant children!

Last night, I had to drop my older brother off at his motel where he works with a bunch of construction workers. A bunch of leering scary construction workers. A bunch of leering scary construction workers who are from West Virginia.

Unfortunately, it wasn't a simple drop. I wasn't able to leave the drugs and flee. I helped him carry his bags and his key was not working. So I had to stand there, under the very thorough stares of his gazillion male co-workers who were splashing about in the pool and various other activities in varying degrees of undress, and guard his bags.

To emphasize the seediness of this place, the room next to which I was standing, a cop was interviewing someone whose car/niece/money had been taken/kidnapped/stolen.

He returned. After an eternity. The key worked and I waved good-bye.

As I was walking to my car, someone draped themselves over the above railing and inquired loudly enough for all three neighborhoods to hear "WHO IS THE NEW GIRLFIEND?"

Eric sighed, rolled his eyes and told them "Dude! That's my sister."

Not skipping a beat, he shouted "SO!"

As we were waiting for the announcement of the Michael Jackson verdict, since I work with all women, I heard such comments as

"He is simply a child with the urges of an adult."

"He doesn't understand what he did."

"I think he is simply a sucker for children, he didn't mean to actually hurt them"

"He never had a childhood! How can you blame him!"

Is it just me, or does the motive of the crime still not change the crime?

Their opinions if he were to be sentaced:

"I don't think he should go to jail, he might get hurt!"

"Is only saving hope would be the strong black community in prison would probably protect him."

"How could they put that man in jail who only meant to help children?"



I am not sure if they are retarded, simply have no idea how horrific child molestation is, or do not understand the full meaning of the word justice.

"The best part of drinking on the job is: people feel sorry for you and bring you Dairy Queen"
--Queen Of Slackers

Explaining that drinking on the job is not only encouraged in Washington D.C., but gives you quite a few more perks.

In another life, QOS and I were sisters. Granted, she is the more adorable of the two and has the enviable skill of getting away with murder because she prefaces everything with "bless her heart" and can batt her (digustingly long) eyelashes innocently.

She cheered with the rest of us until our voices gave out. She showed her spirit by channeling "trailer park" and wearing her Go Joy! t-shirt in the halter top Princess whipped up for her. (Princess channeled Flashdance and I was channeling punk.) She made the appropriately snarky commentary regarding the dresses, dances and lack of class in most of the contestants. She cried with the rest of us when Joy did not make the top nine (solid proof that the entire pageant is rigged, since Joy rocked the piano like Delaware has never seen before.)

In fact, shortly after knowing her about five hours, she was dubbed an "adopted sister". After the first night of competition, still sporting our fabulous shirts, we went out and grabbed a bite to eat. (The rumors of her ability to eat copious amounts of food at any given time are quite true, and then some. She inhaled a half-pound burger, fries, coleslaw AND THE PICKLE like she was only eating a Little Debbie. Or a dozen.) The charming fellow who was ringing up our tab was starely intently at our chests shirts. After he was properly glared at, he asked me "So, is that YOU on your shirt?" I wanted reply with a simple "Yes. It is me. And I have conned two of my friends into walking around with my face on their boobs." But instead, sweetly explained that no, it was my sister who was in a beauty pageant that we had just finished cheering for. He then glanced at Princess and QOS and asked if they were my sisters as well. I explained that Princess was indeed my sister, and QOS was this random person who happens to read my blog and I had not met but five hours before an adopted sister. That seemed to satisfy his curiostity of our relation, but not of the fascinating picture that was displayed so broadly on our boobs shirts.

So now we have one more person who understands the way we think. And understands the necessity of keeping a string of dates to suppliment living expenses. And no matter how adorable the asshole guy is, there is just no reason to be voluntarily nice.



Watch out world, there is one more of us.

A rather good-looking, but roughly twenty years my senior, company owner came in and was flirting liberally. Of course, when he asked my weekend plans and I told him beauty pageant watching, he wanted to know why I wasn't in them. And all that "flattering" stuff.

He plied me with several more questions. Until, the last one "So, will you be taking your man with you to this pageant?"




No, I replied, I am taking all my lesbian girlfriends.

That you were "going to go to the bathroom (gosh! I have been drinking so much water lately and I have to pee all the time), find mykeys and THEN going home to feed mydog".



Please explain to me why you couldn't have said "I am going out, will be back in thirty minutes?"

Because I found the perfect bikini.

Am not so happy because I do not have the perfect body.

Eloquence does not exist for me right now. I am tired, grumpy, have a headache, want to sleep, hungry, hating everyone I work with and really, really hoping Barbie will win.

Stay posted for pictures of Princess, QOS and Porkchop at the beach this weekend. However terrifying that may be.



And lots of snarky commentary regarding eighteen perfect bodies we have to watch marching across the stage.

I just wanted to say, the lack of funniness is going to continue for awhile since I am feeling sicker and sicker. The horrible cold has now settled in my chest in a sharp cough. The kind that feels like a knife whenever you breathe.

Not to be mistaken for the cold leaving me completely. The entire front of my head is stuffy and full of all sorts of unspeakable things that give me headaches and keep me occupied with my box of Kleenex.

This cannot simply be written of to a nasty cold, since I am now quite nauseous and dizzy I will give my utmost effort to try and pass out at work today so I can go home. (Though the nausea might be in direct correlation to the fact I all I ate for breakfast was Whitestrips backwash and a sour raspberry Altoid. This does not, however, explain the dizziness.)

In other news, I am wearing a cute new skirt, which I realized did not match my shirt once I got to work.

I am blaming my sickness on work related stress. Unfortunately, I don't think anyone is going to care about me or my sickness until I start leaving at wake of used Kleenex behind me, or better get, heaped on their respective desks. Even then, they wouldn't care about poor dying Porkchop, they would simply care to know if I had AIDS or not as they gingerly removed the possiblely deathly tissues.



This day cannot be over fast enough.

This business of being completely addled out of my mind with medication turning over a new leaf is rather disturbing to my sense of self and knowing just who I am. I know that I wear very high heels, know very little about cars and at any given moment smell like Givinchey Indecent Organza. Yes. That is the non-medicated old Porkchop.

The tripping new Porkchop, in a moment of insight into her car, thought one of her tires looked a little low and should be filled, just to be safe and all that. Now, the non-medicated old Porkchop would have frantically called her father on his cell phone pleading for help. Actually, the old Porkchop probably would not have noticed until her tire was completely flat, and then would have arranged for the entire fire department to change it. But, no. The tripping sensible new Porkchop drove over to the dark cavern her father calls his Shop and tried to fill her own tire.

As evidence of my medicated state new found sense of idiocy, I was wearing a WHITE skirt and hauling this filthy air hose about trying to fill my tire. Tip-toeing around the puddles of grease in Barbies Coach flats. (Dear God, PLEASE do not give Barbie internet access anytime soon.) After growing bored with this entire process some more deep insight into my car, I decided without the help of a little air pressure meter thingy with my keen sensing skills, that my car tire was quite satisified.

I then had the ardous task of rewinding the air hose. I actually managed to accomplish this while escaping even a speck of grease or dirt on my white skirt, only to realize my hands were now COVERED is the sort of things that any sort of Porkchop, new or old, would despair in having touch her skin. I set out in hunt of shop towels. Those fasinatingly soft paper towels that come in a box.I love these towels, whenever I can find them, I use them liberally. I could NOT find any. (They had probably hidden them since my last visit.) I began to despair, I was going to show up to work, late, covered in shop muck.

Being terribly inventive, I found the car care supplies, where I carefully wiped myself down with Armour-All Cleaning Wipes. I can assure you, they smell nothing like Givenchy. And the smell of Armour-All and Givenchy COMBINED is even less appealing. Wait! That was the old Porkchop typing. The new Porkchop realizes that it was necessary, and practical. And she applauds trading her vanity for practicality. GO PORKCHOP!

As I was driving to work, I was trying to pat myself on the back for being so, so LEVEL-HEADED. I FILLED MY TIRE ALL BY MYSELF. ALL BY MYSELF, PEOPLE! THE NEW PORKCHOP REIGNS!

Once I finially GOT to work and sat at my desk, I promptly spilled coffee on my white skirt.



When I come down off this medication, I surely hope I have a wardrobe left.

In the past twenty-four hours I have considered adopting a puppy, voluntarily petted a kitten, considered doing beauty pageants and worn flats. (Albiet, very cute flats, but nonetheless flats.)



I really think I should stop taking this medication.



I am not terribly worried, since most of this has not progressed past the "consideration" stage, and will most likely stay there.

My necessities of life:

Three coats of mascara (I only have one coat on)

and

My cell phone


were forgotten today and not only I could not care less, but I just now, an hour and fourty-five minutes away from leaving to go home, realized it.

I did not save a child from drowning. I did not say charitable things to the people I work with. And I most certainly did not write a retraction for my fridge memo. This weekend, on my way to model land, I managed to run over three canadian geese.

Do not worry, my car is fine. No damage, save the goose feathers stuck in the grill and the fact I had to endure the smell of roasting goosefeathers and flesh for a few miles.

I know I should feel bad for mowing down such "harmless" animals. But, since a very young and tender age, I have had a deep entrenched hate for geese. Most likely from all those years of them chasing me around the park pecking my butt, even though I was kindly trying to feed them bread. Ok. So I had a slight fascination with pulling their feathers out. BUT I WAS TRYING TO FEED THEM! I thought it was fair! I, at the tender age of seven, had my own Food For Feathers program in place. But they too, thought they could get their food AND keep their feathers. Stupid geese.

Do not think that I went out of my way to run over them. I would not give them that much respect or dignity. The vile birds decided that they needed to cross, all fifty-seven of them, right in front of me as I was doing ninety miles per hour. For a quick second, I entertained the thought of swerving, but then I remembered my ill-fated sister who swerved to avoid a animal and flipped her car over THREE times. And then, in the next quick second, I remembered the lesson my father had drilled into the rest of his living children "if their is a choice between your life and the life of a animal, go with your life." I wondered if the fact he saved this life lesson until AFTER her accident, was on purpose, but I never questioned him. Nor did I question the exceptions that followed his life rule, such as "unless you recently managed to get rejected from the state college" or "unless you envision yourself stripping your way through college" or "unless you are going to have your license suspended a second time, in that case, just kill yourself."

So, when I felt the crunch of the three corpses underneath my fast-moving tires, I was tempted to feel guilty. But then I remembered I had just done the free world a favor. Or at least the free world of seven year olds. They could now play freely, with three less geese to peck them, spread diseases to them and threaten death by bludgeoning with beaks.



Ok. Maybe I should have let the geese live.

I am dizzy. I have a headache. I have a fever. I feel like my eyes should be crossing and my tounge should be lolling out of my mouth.

I am at work.

I am not hungover.

I am simply on the verge of death.



Whether it will be from medication overdose or suffocation by mucus, it is not clear as of yet.

Just thought I should let you know, if you never hear from Le Porkchop again, and then see headlines reading "Model Dies In Tragic Drug Overdose" it is from the combining of three different cold medicines and two different allergy medications. Not from shooting crack in between my toes.

I just wanted to clear that up, so my life can be reflected upon in a positive light.



You know, since I am such a happy person.

Last night, I recieved a call from a former boyfriend. This paticular boyfriend was going to propose to me around May of this year. Since we didn't make it past the end of July, as you can imagine, the proposal did not happen.

He called me last night to tell me he is engaged, as of two weeks ago. After he told me that he "would not trade the time he dated me for anything in the world" and he "still cherished every memory" and that "while his girlfriend HAD been jealous about him calling me, she was over it now".

So, as of March 25, 2006, he is going to be a MARRIED MAN. (Ah! So I can stop chasing him!) MARRIED. A close friend of mine has not only been married, but married and divorced. Actually, make that two friends of mine. My sister, formerly referred to as the Model of Singleness and Spinsterhood, is getting married in Novemeber.

I feel like my biological clock should be ticking or something. I feel like I should be sobbing myself to sleep, begging God for children. I feel like I should be taking every date very seriously, interviewing them as potential father figures.

Someone in my office was trying to be "helpful" so she assured me that:



"If nothing else, someone will marry you for your cooking."

We are about to have another office luncheon. Thankfully, we are managing to actually be efficient and celebrate the birthday of a secretary and the retirement of someone else. TWO PARTIES IN ONE!

Tropical Pickled Bitch is not here today, nor is our Vice President, nor is the owner. So I might be a bit hard up for a good story.



But I am sure I can find someone to hate.

We are preparing ourselves for a battle of blonde twits. Of course, the exception to the twit part is Joy.

We are making t-shirts and we are going to have males spell out G-O-J-O-Y on their chests. And someone, undetermined as of yet, is going to teach me how to whistle really, really loud.

If anyone wants to come. Seriously. Come. Queen-Of-Slackers and I are going to rock the place with our brilliant commentary.

Friday and/or Saturday. Take your pick. Rehobeth Beach. We are going to D-O-M-I-N-A-T-E. If it is that painful, you can go drink away your worries at Dewey.



Email me if you want to rip your shirt off, paint your chest, wear a t-shirt or just come for the hell of it.

Sometimes people manage to apoligize in such a fashion that even the hardened heart of Porkchop is pricked.

I had no idea Josh read my blog. And frankly, that is no excuse. Upon reading my remarks, he was far more gracious than I was to he. And while Josh was not seeking a public apoligy or anything of that sort, since I saw fit to inform the blogging world of my grievences with him I thought I could do the same courtesty, only extending my apoligies this time.

And even though he is a rather prominent leader of a church, he did not haughtily invoke Matthew 5 on me. Instead, he sincerly asked forgiveness for offending me.

So, Josh, I am terribly sorry for writing unkind things about you, paticularly since I was taking up the offences of others that had nothing directly pertaining to me.


It just goes to show that the adage of your words biting you in your proverbial piggy haunches, is quite true.

I know you all have been wondering for quite some time how I manage to survive at work. You have to understand, the reason everyone work still loves me is I manage to depict myself as delightfully sweet with funny atictodes. No one takes my meanness seriously, they always think I am joking. Which is fine, I let them think that. But I further the sweet image by doing what works with all women:

Bribing them with food.

Not OVERT bribery. Very subtle. For "no reason", I will bake cookies and bring them into work. Or a cake. On a hot day, I will pick up Italian ice for everyone. Consequently, (even though Italian ice requires ZERO cooking) I am known as sweet, cute and a good cook. Which is why the bevy of unmatchable males are always dragged my way. "She may be a bitch evil person capable of rendering you speechless, but she can cook."

Whenever there is a birthday, one paticular person always bakes a cake for the birthday person. No one really likes her cakes. In fact, I have started a support group wherein we all scrape our icing of together and try to hide our oversized slices without being spotted. But for some odd reason, her cakes are legendary. And she takes pride in this. So, the one time I mistakenly and innocently brought in a cake for someone's birthday, I was quickly put in line as to WHO does and WHO DOES NOT bring cakes for birthday. It was made clear I fell into the latter category.

I figured she is a evil wench who will chop me into a thousand pieces harmless old lady who is lonely and appreciates the affirmation, until, one day, I made a cake WHEN SHE WAS NOT HERE and brought it in. Big mistake. She HEARD about it. Not only did she hear about it, but she heard the glowing accolades that accompanied my cake which did not include buttercream icing or blue food dye. And because of this, I was shoved from the Nice list, to the Naughty Poisoned Cake list. But, because of a serious of apparently tragic events she has TEMPORARILY relinquished her crown to me. And I am going to make it so very worth it.

Tomorrow, ladies and gentlemen, they will be dining on:

Raspberry Whipped Cream Truffle Cake



I think this should make up for my lavishly evil behavior as of late.

As usual, my incredibly brilliant brother has been able to find a practical use for even the most frivilous of my endeavors. He emailed me this.

Yes, I could charge for an outgoing link. No, apparently I am not working quite as hard to keep traffic up or be linked to. Yes, it looks as if ONE WHOLE PERSON has unlinked me (whoever you are, I will hunt you down and sink my little porky chops into you!) recently.

But really, he simply likes to use this as another tool to underscore the fact there are strange people out there who like to read what I have written AND comment. And there are strange people out there who acknowledge my noticably lesser intellgence and existance. (Though many, including Dave, with harshly debate the former attribute, and plead for the latter to become a lie.)



Yes, my wee brother, this is the life! You can have value as a LINK WHORE.

I am relishing the look on her face.

She barged into my office, even though my door was shut, just in time to hear me belting out the paticular line of today's theme song which says



"Turn around and bitch slap somebody ..."

In case you have not yet understood this, I work in the very depths of hell. Complete with Tropical Bitches, Voices that speak of doom, Button Police and assundry other characters.

What I have not mentioned is that the owner of my workplace is, in fact, a multimillionaire. Who sort of micromanages all of us for the fun of it. He is one of those people who breezes into the office after a few months abroad for approximentally one whole week. He then, in that week, proceeds to anger half the staff and create such confusion, tumult and anger that normally one or two people quit while he is here.

He is in town.

My boss is not happy.

I would secretely applaud her if she left.

I am working on my resume.

I am going to scatter my blog address about once I leave.



(Not really. But I wish.)