Good Times Had By All

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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.

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This odd narrative is my life. I ended up in Pittsburgh, of all places--from the beach. I have no hobbies, other than cooking excessively and eating microwave popcorn. I enjoy shopping, the Food network, hiding the remote so the Food network cannot be turned off, find ethnic food stores and restaurants and reading voraciously. My life is decidedly pedestrian.

I worked in the car business where I was required to be ruthless and soul-less wench, which is when I started this project. Since then, I've kept it up because secretly, I've always wanted to join the military. Every male in my mother's family has joined and I quietly entertain thoughts of joining. I haven't yet and don't know if I ever will, but sending the troops cookies keeps me sane. it makes me think I still have a shred of human kindness left in my withering soul. it's a small way for me to salute the men and women who are brave enough to fight for freedom. And makes me feel like I'm contributing toward troop morale--even if I'm not. So if you want to help, send me addresses of troops you know stationed overseas. you may also contribute toward the cost of chocolate chips, but don't feel obligated, that link is here only by request.

the past


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